


Full Circle

by 1MissMolly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drug Use, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Murder, Time Shift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-10-30 22:21:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 59,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10886085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1MissMolly/pseuds/1MissMolly
Summary: John Watson is forced to treat a criminal with a bullet wound. When he arrives, he meets the man who broke his heart seven years earlier.“John . . .” The man whispered.“If you wanted to see me again, you didn’t have to go and get yourself shot!” John growled.“Boss? You know the doc?” Asked the kidnapper.“I . . . we were . . . acquainted.”“Oh, I see. Just acquainted.” John said and he stepped closer. “You threw me out. Told me you never wanted to see me again. Just acquainted.”“John, I . . .”John glared for a few more seconds then glanced down at the wounded leg. “I see you’ve decided to take your brother up on his offer.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is a time shift in this story. The first portion of each chapter will be 2017 and the second portion is 2005 when Sherlock and John were students at university.

Doctor John Watson struggled to slip the blue hospital scrubs on. The industrial washing had left the cotton stiff and scratchy. For a brief moment, John regretted not having his combat canvas fatigues to wear. The worn fabric was thicker and more substantial but softened by desert sand and sun. He could suddenly smell the dirt of Afghanistan and the feel the heat of the air. He grabbed his cane tightly to steady himself as another memory swept over him again.

He walked with a limp now and his hand had a tremor, but it didn’t matter. John had gotten a job working as a trauma doctor in the A and E of St. Bart’s Hospital. He was starting his shift as he pushed open the door on the doctors’ lounge and stepped out into the busy hallways of the department. The evening shift was coming to an end and the night shift was just coming on. There was the general hum of voices and occasional cries of pain. The phone was ringing at the admitting desk and no one was answering it. A normal Friday night in London.

John worked the late night shift this week. Alternating with his other doctors as one of their number was out on his honeymoon. John was working double shifts to help cover. Late night and early morning. There were generally fewer patients on those two shifts but the injuries were usually much more severe. It was only when John was focused on saving lives that his PTSD slipped into the background. For a brief time, John was useful again and he felt whole. He had an underlying guilt that with each trauma, John was just a little more saved.

His palm gripped the handle of his cane tightly as John limped down the hall and to the nurses’ station. He grabbed the first chart in the rack of cases.

“What do we have on tap for tonight, Cora?” John asked the black woman behind the counter.

Cora Arato was from the West Indies. She was tall and thin with a close cut hairstyle that accentuated the roundness of her skull. Her dark skin was smooth and clear of any blemishes. Her dark eyes were round and large.

“Doctor Sarah is already working on the ‘GSW’ to the chest. I have a child with the mumps and a stab wound.”

“I’ll take the stab wound.” John said as he set the file down he had been reading and reached out for the new file.

Cora handed John the file and went to grab the ringing phone. “A and E,” she nearly shouted as her accent became stronger.

John grimaced at her, knowing Cora’s night was only going to get harder as it went. Slowly he limped down the hall and into the examination cubical just off the main hall. He pulled the curtain back and saw two men in there. One was sitting on the bed and the other was leaning against the wall. Both were dressed in dark clothes and heavy wool coats. Neither one looked injured.

“Mister Ryan?” John asked looking between both men, his eyebrow raised questioning.

“Yeah, that would be me.” The man sitting on the bed said. “Are you the doc?”

“Yes, Doctor Watson. Where were you stabbed?” John automatically pulled the curtain closed behind him and stepped closer to the bed. His eyes traveled up and down the man assessing where he had been injured.

The man’s knuckles were bruised and there was a smear of blood or some other dark stain on his coat sleeve. Ryan seemed to be twitchy, and nervous, but John didn’t worry about that. It was normal for patients to be scared in the A and E.

Before Ryan could answer the other man pushed himself off the wall and looked John up and down. A sneer was curling the man’s mouth into an unattractive smile.

“Why do you walk with a cane, doc?” the second man asked.

“None of your business.” John said firmly.

“They said you’s was shot in the war . . . is that true?” The second man stepped closer to John. He towered over the shorter man.

John held his ground and looked up into the man’s meaty face. He had thick jowls and his brown eyes looked washed out and faded. John could see discoloration surrounding the man’s corneas. The fatty deposit that indicated a heart diseases.

“I was a captain in the army. And yes, I was shot. Now if you don’t mind, your friend here is the patient, not me.” John turned back to the sitting man.

John glanced down at the small 22 caliber pistol in the Ryan’s hand. Suddenly, John’s stomach muscles tightened and his mouth went dry. How could he be so stupid to let these two get the drop on him?

“No, doc. I’m not the patient, but you got one to take care of anyway. Grab what you need to take care of a bullet wound and come with us. And don’t let anyone know what is going on. If you do, a whole lot of innocent people will be needing more than a plaster tonight.”

John hesitated for a moment. His eye traveling between the two men. If he went with them there was a great possibility he wouldn’t return, but Ryan had also promised to harm anyone in the A and E if John didn’t go with him.

John hobbled over to the suture cart and removed what he thought he would need. Shoving the supplies into the pockets of his lab coat.

“Does your friend need blood?” John asked wondering how he could infuse a unit of blood in the field.

“No, he’s not bleed’n bad. It’s a leg wound. Thigh.” The sneering man said.

“Why not bring him in here where he came be treated properly?” John asked.

“Too many witnesses. My boss doesn’t like witnesses, but don’t worry doc. If you do a good job, he will let you go.”

John huffed out a breath and glared at the two men. “So happy to know I’m dealing with honest criminals.”

Ryan slipped off the bed and pushed the muzzle of the gun into John’s ribs as sneering man grabbed John’s elbow and pushed him through the curtain. The hallway was crowded now. There had been a fight at pub and several of the brawlers had been brought in by the police. Cora was busy with officer who was giving her information about the fight. She never saw John and two men walk pass her desk and out the entrance. Pass the police and the bleeding patients.

The drive took less than fifteen minutes. John had been shoved into the foot well of the car. They had slipped a black hood over his head and he wasn’t exactly sure where they were. The saloon pulled into a garage and Ryan jumped out of the car and closed the doors before sneering man pulled John from the back seat. John stumbled along as the men dragged him up a small flight of stairs and into a room above the garage.

“It’s about fucking time.” A deep voice said.

John straightened up and listened. His vision was still blocked by the black hood, but he knew that voice. He had heard it so many times in his dreams. If made his skin tingle to hear it again. John suddenly felt sick. Like he was going to vomit. He didn’t want to see the man again. He didn’t want it to be like this.

“The place was crowded, boss. It was difficult to get the doc out of there. The coppers showed up with some punters.”

John twisted to shake off Ryan and the other man’s grip. He grabbed at the hood and yanked it off his face. He blinked his eyes once to adjust to the change in light, but then locked them on the man sitting on the table. The man’s long legs stretched out in front of him. Blood covering his trouser leg and spreading across the wooden surface.

“John . . .” The man whispered.

“If you wanted to see me again, you didn’t have to go and get yourself shot!” John growled.

Ryan and the sneering man glanced at each other. “Boss? You know the doc?”

“I . . . we were . . . acquainted.”

“Oh, I see. Just acquainted.” John said and he stepped closer. “You threw me out. Told me you never wanted to see me again. Just acquainted.”

“John, I . . .”

John glared for a few more seconds then glanced down at the wounded leg. “I see you’ve decided to take your brother up on his offer.” John started to remove the supplies from the pockets of his lab coat and set them on the table. “One of you two idiots, get me a bowl of clean water and some towels. Now!”

Ryan went dashing off relieved to out of the room. The sneering man glanced around looking for an escape.

“Billy, go help Ryan.” The man quickly followed his partner out of the room and down the stairs. “How have you been, John?”

“This is not a visit, Sherlock. Your men kidnapped me to treat a criminal not to have a civil reunion.” John glared at the dark haired man sitting on the table as he pulled on pair of latex gloves. John grabbed at the cloth around the hole in the trousers and pulled. The expensive fabric ripped as Sherlock winced in pain. “So let me guess . . . you and Mycroft are the new Krays. Which one of you is the psychopath and which is the insane one?”

“It is not like that.” Sherlock said, his voice remaining soft even though his heart was pumping harder with each second John stood close to him. “I didn’t send them to get you specifically.”

“So that is supposed to make me feel better? You just sent your goons to grab any doctor they could get their hands on? Will I be able to leave or will someone find my body in the Thames next week?” John didn’t look up he was started to clean the wound with surgical scrub.

The bullet hole was high on the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. John bent over the man’s body as a memory flashed through his mind of the last time he had touched Sherlock here. Of the last time he had been this close to the man.

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. “You can leave as soon as you stitch me up.”

John grunted and kept working. Ryan returned with the water and some fresh towels. John just pointed at the table and didn’t say anything. Ryan set down the bowl and rushed out of the room.

“So who shot you? Another criminal or was it a policeman?” John said as he injected a numbing agent into the tissue around the injury.

“It’s not what you think.” Sherlock said as he prepared himself for John to start to remove the projectile.

“I think you were shot in the leg, most likely during the commission of a crime.”

“Would it have been better to be shot by some Taliban fighter in the desert? Would that appease your sensibilities?” Sherlock finally snapped.

John stood up straight and glared at the man. “DON’T YOU DARE! Don’t you compare what I did to what you are doing!”

The two men stared at each other. Their anger and heartache bleeding through their expressions. Finally Sherlock spoke.

“The sooner you sew up my leg the sooner you can return to your boring little life.” The contempt in Sherlock’s voice was barely contained.

John gritted his teeth and stepped forward again. He found the bullet quickly and removed, none to gently. Sherlock hissed as the lump of lead was yanked from his muscle. John wiped the area again with the betadine and started to suture the edges together.

He worked silently and Sherlock watched him. John was more compact now. Muscles were present where there used to be soft pliant skin. Sherlock could see the lines around John’s eyes that hadn’t been there before. His round baby face had hardened and taken on a weariness that was more than the seven years since they had seen each other. John’s soft blonde hair was now flecked with grey. Too much grey for his thirty-five years. Sherlock wondered if the war had aged John so much or had it been John’s time with him.

He wanted to reach out and touch John. He wanted to see if John still had the softest hair he ever dragged his fingers through. He wanted to know if John was still ticklish in that one spot on his neck. If John still smelled of tea and Sunday mornings lying in bed together.

John snipped the last suture and stood up straight again. “That should hold.” He took one of the towels Ryan had brought and wiped away the blood. Dipping it into the water then sponging the skin around the wound. “I’ll bandage it and go. Keep it clean and don’t walk too much. If there is any heat or swelling, go to hospital immediately.”

John pulled out gauze and tape to bandage the wound. Sherlock watched as John’s hands worked quickly and efficiently. How many times in the past had he watched those hands as they travelled over his skin? He remembered how warm John’s hands were when they held him.

Sherlock watched as John picked up the debris and pulled the latex gloves off. He washed his hands then turned back to Sherlock.

“Now can I leave, or are your men going to . . .”

“You may leave, John. No one will touch you.” Sherlock said while in his mind he finished the sentence. _‘No one except me.’_

~221~

2005       Sherlock hated being at parties like this one. The music was loud and the bass reverberated inside his chest. The house smelled of cheap beer and sweat. The party goers were inane and stupid. If it wasn’t the promise of drugs from Jim, Sherlock wouldn’t be caught dead here.

Sherlock had eluded his brother’s goons earlier in the evening and was now walking through the house looking for the dark haired drug dealer. Jim always saved the very best for Sherlock. Liquid gold. He was needing a hit for several days. Mycroft had become increasingly more difficult to tolerate. His constant spying had worn Sherlock down to the point he was ready to kill someone.

Mycroft wanted Sherlock to come into the business with him. Together, with their combined intelligence they could take over London and rule without competition. Sherlock was not interested in a life of crime. There were too many rules and restrictions that he didn’t wish to be confined by. He wanted to travel where he wanted and do as he saw fit. If he worked with Mycroft, his brother would insist on knowing his every movement and his every contact.

For a short while, Sherlock could escape his brother’s hold by slipping into the ambiguous world of cocaine. Allow the drug to narrow down his thoughts till he could focus on one thought, one idea. Shut the noise out of his mind and let his intellect soar unbound. All he needed was for Jim to get here.

He didn’t know anyone at the party. They appeared to be uni students. Pretensions and ignorant. The more they drank the stupider they became. Sherlock was leaning against a wall when a pretty young thing approached him.

“I’m Emma, who are you?” She was short with dyed ginger hair. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused. In her hand she held a bottle of soda, but Sherlock could smell the alcohol from it.

“Not interested.” Sherlock said as he pushed himself off the wall.

“Hey! What a prick!” Emma shouted as Sherlock started to push through the crowd and head towards the door.

A wave of more people entered the small house and Sherlock recognized one of them. The slicked back hair and dark chocolate eyes.

“Finally,” Sherlock sighed. He was going to have to owe Jim this time. Sherlock wasn’t in the mood to get down on his knees for the man and sure as hell wasn’t going to let Jim fuck him.

Jim glanced around the crowded room then saw Sherlock working his way towards him. A smile came to the smaller man’s face as he saw the dark hair twenty year old. The two pushed through the other party goers and slipped up against each other. Jim pushed up onto his toes to speak into Sherlock ears.

“Hello pet, your brother’s goons are right on my heels. I’ll have to collect later. You better be at your very best when I call.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed over towards the door. He saw the two men step in, shoving the other guests to the side. Sherlock felt a small vial being pressed into his palm as Jim turned to leave. He turned quickly and slipped passed Emma and her friends as he moved towards the stairs. Sherlock was half way up the staircase when he saw the two thugs grab hold of Jim. The young man squealed and started shouting about police harassment. Sherlock ran up the remaining stairs and down the hall.

He crashed into the bathroom without knocking, locking the door behind him. He left the lights off as he took a step back in the darkness; his heart pounding hard. If Mycroft’s men found the drugs on him, he would be taken to rehab that night.

“Are you hiding too?”

Sherlock spun at the voice and kicked himself mentally for not noticing the other boy in the room.

“Are you?”

The younger man stepped forward. The light creeping in from under door was casting odd shadows across the two young men’s faces but Sherlock could see the boy was younger than himself. He was at least six inches shorter and had military cut blonde hair. His face was round and smooth with a small pug nose.

“Yeah, avoiding some unwanted attention. I’m John.” Although the young man was concentrating on annunciating his words, he still slurred them.

“Sherlock. Who are you avoiding?”

“A girl . . . she thinks we should get married.”

“You should tell her you are gay.” Sherlock said as he stepped closer to the young man.

“I’m not gay!” John protested.

“And if I’m not mistaken, a virgin too.” Sherlock said as he took a closer look at his new companion.

“What!? What makes you think that?” John started to weave and Sherlock reached out and grabbed the young man by the shoulders. “I’m not a virgin.” John closed his eyes and leaned into Sherlock’s body trying to steady himself.

Sherlock could smell the beer on the boy.

“I observe things. I make deductions. You are a virgin or your first time was very unfulfilling.”

John opened his eyes and looked up into Sherlock’s. He slowly licked his lips then closed his eyes again.

“I’m . . . it wasn’t . . .” John said tripping over his words. Sherlock smiled wickedly. John opened his eyes again and stared up at Sherlock. “You’re angel . . .”

“Hardly.”

“You look like an angel. I know an angel when I see one.”

“How drunk are you?” Sherlock asked.

“There isn’t anything wrong in being a virgin.” John said ducking his head down.

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“I’m . . . Who are you hiding from?”

“My brother and his sniffer dogs.” Sherlock said as he stepped closer to John. In the partial light Sherlock couldn’t exactly tell the color of John’s eyes but there were other things he could deduce.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.” John said opening his eyes and giving a lopsided smile.

Sherlock noticed John’s smile was also in his eyes. It just didn’t take up his face but the smile itself could be seen in the boy’s eyes. Sherlock’s hand slipped from John’s shoulder, where he had been holding the boy steady, and up to his face. He cupped John’s cheek and let his long fingers reach up and touch the soft blonde hair.

“If you are interested in remedying your virginity, let me know.” Sherlock said as his voice dipped down to a lower octave. He noticed John didn’t pull out his touch.

“I said it wasn’t a problem and I told you I’m not gay.” John’s tongue came out again and licked over his bottom lip. Sherlock wanted to chase that tongue back into its mouth.

“You are lying. I can tell.”

“How?”

“Your pulse has increased the closer we have gotten to each other. Your eyes are dilating and your breathing is speeding up. If I was to palm your groin would I find hard evidence of your attraction?”

Sherlock watched as John struggled to swallow. “Oh God . . .”

John tipped his head back and his lips parted slightly. Sherlock took it as an invitation and dived in. His mouth sealing over John’s. His tongue plunging in. He tasted the beer in disgust. Sherlock lick and smeared his tongue throughout John’s mouth, till all he could taste was John’s natural taste. Masculine and delicious.

Sherlock shifted and brought his thigh between John’s legs. He pushed his thigh forward and felt the bulge in John’s jeans. John whimpered as Sherlock pulled his lips back to smile while he continued to kiss the young man. John’s hands flaying till they landed on Sherlock’s chest, then slipped around his shoulders, pulling the older boy closer. Sherlock’s hands smoothed over John’s body, stroking his sides and palming at his back.

They were still kissing when the door was kicked in and Mycroft’s men pushed their way into the tiny bathroom.

“Do you mind?” Sherlock growled as the men pushed the two of them apart.

“Come on, Sherlock. You know the drill.” The taller of the two men shoved Sherlock into the wall and started to pat him down. He pushed his hands into the pockets of the jeans and slid his hands over Sherlock’s chest.

“Hey! Who are you guys? Cops?” John asked as the shorter man kept John back from Sherlock.

“Something like that.” The shorter man laughed.

“He’s clean,” the taller man said.

“Can’t be,” replied the shorter man.

“Nothing.”

“But Moriarty was here. We saw him.”

Sherlock pushed himself off the wall and returned to John’s side.

“If you two are done being worthless imbeciles, you can take me and my friend home.” Sherlock said as he wrapped his arm around John’s shoulder.

“Wait . . .” John began to try to argue but Sherlock leaned forward and thoroughly kissed the younger boy again.

John hummed into his Sherlock’s mouth. He slummed forward into Sherlock’s arms.

“We ain’t no taxi service. Find your own way home, you bastard.” The shorter man said a distinctive cockney tone. “Fuck’n waste of time keep’n an eye on you any way.”

“Forbes, your accent is showing. Mycroft won’t like that one bit.” Sherlock sneered at the shorter man.

The man stepped forward as if to threaten Sherlock. John stepped back slipping out of Sherlock’s grasp. Sherlock stayed relax as he stared the shorter man down and refused to be threatened.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here, Jerry. Com’on Sherly.”

Sherlock turned and pushed John back against the wall. He loomed over the shorter man.

“Told you . . . not gay.” John said as he tried to not appear intimidated.

“I told you, you are bisexual.” Sherlock smiled as his hands slipped up and ran across John’s chest. He leaned in and kissed John again, but John fought to not return it. John blinked repeatedly as he blushed deeply. The two men were no longer staring at them.

“I’m not going to sleep with you tonight.” John whispered as he tried to focus his eyes.

“Shame.” Sherlock said as his fingers slipped into the pocket of John’s shirt. He pulled out the vial of liquid cocaine. John never felt it. “I think I would enjoy fucking you.”

Sherlock turned on his heels and walked out of the bathroom. A smug smile on his face as he was escorted out by the two men.


	2. Chapter 2

2017       It had been four days since John had seen Sherlock. He was actually surprised when Sherlock’s men released him unharmed after he had stitched Sherlock’s wound. He thought he would never return to St. Bart’s but he was able to make his next shift the following day. Questions were asked as to why he left in the middle of his shift the day before, but John simple said he was feeling ill and had to leave. He apologized for not going through proper procedure for checking out, but since he had so willingly taken extra work on, no one complained much.

Also no one commented on him no longer walking with his cane. It seemed he had left it in Ryan’s car. He didn’t want to waste time thinking why he didn’t need it since the night he thought he was going to die. There was something about the fear and exhilaration of being in danger that seemed to invigorate John and cure him of his limp. He knew if he told his therapist, Ella, she who have told him it was a psychosomatic limp and he never needed the cane in the first place.

He was walking out into the sunlight when he saw them again, Ryan and the sneering man, Jerry. John glanced up and down the street as the two men approached.

“Are you here to kill me?” he asked tying to sound unconcerned.

“He’s sick, doc. He is running a fever.” Ryan said. “Mister Holmes said we’re to get you.”

“Mister Holmes?” John wondered which Mister Holmes they were speaking of. “I told Sherlock to go to hospital if he developed a fever. It is still my recommendation.”

“Doc, you know he can’t do that. And if he shows up at A and E, what’s he going to tell them? That he was shot and Doc Watson stitched him up without notifying the coppers?”

John sighed again and shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets. “Let me at least get a proper medical kit this time. Wait here. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

As promised he returned to the street with a well-stocked medical bag. He followed Ryan and his partner to the car. John sat in the backseat of the saloon as it made its way to the northwest. They pulled into the carpark under a glass and steel building on Euston Road. The building was sleek and so very different from the flat Sherlock and John had shared seven years ago.

Ryan took John up the private lift to the flat on the top floor of the building. The lift opened up onto a large sleek room with views of the city through glass walls. The inside walls were dark grey, almost black without any pictures hanging on them. There were dark suede couches with chrome and glass furniture. Every surface in the flat was clean and free of anything personal. The flat was immaculate and didn’t look anything like the cluttered rooms on the first floor of 221 Baker Street. John didn’t believe Sherlock lived here.

“Where is he?” John asked looking around the room.

“In his bedroom.” Ryan said, waving John towards a closed door.

John stepped over to the closed door and opened it. The bed room was just as stylish as the living room and just as impersonal. Sherlock was laying on the bed made up with dark grey sheets. His skin was flushed and moist with sweat. The sheets were pooled around Sherlock’s waist and his chest was bare. John paused for moment to look at the man who used to be his lover. Sherlock was lean and strong looking and no longer frightfully thin. His skin still looked as pale as ivory under his fever, but John could see scars that were not there seven years. John stepped forward and sat on the edge of the bed causing Sherlock to wake with a start. He took in a deep breath ready to attack when he looked up at John’s face. For a second there was a softening of his expression and warmth in silver blue eyes.

“Are you here or this another dream?” Sherlock whispered.

“You mean nightmare.” John expression hardened as he glared down at the sick man. “I told you to go to hospital if . . .”

“Yes, yes, yes. I heard you the first time. Couldn’t go.” Sherlock waved his hand, dismissing the idea from the conversation.

“Couldn’t go or couldn’t follow simple instruction?” John asked.

He reached up and laid his right hand over Sherlock’s brow. Sherlock felt the coolness of John’s skin and it was strange. John was always warmer than him. It seemed odd to think of John with cool skin. John stood and opened his bag.

“Let me see the wound. See how bad you let it get.” John pulled on a pair of latex gloves as he removed a thermometer from the bag. Before Sherlock could protest, John shoved the glass rod into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock grunted and rolled his eyes.

Sherlock tossed the covers off his legs and exposed himself to John. John froze when he realized Sherlock was completely naked under the covers. John felt a lump swell in his throat and he forced himself to swallow it down.

“Funny, Sherlock.” John said.

Sherlock pulled the thermometer from his mouth before he spoke. “I tried to warn you but you shoved this in my gullet.”

“Put it back,” growled John.

He ignored the man’s nudity and proceeded to gently shift Sherlock’s thigh so he could get a better view of the wound. It was red but the skin was not puffy or tender to the touch. There was no discharge and the edges looked good. John returned to his bag and removed a hypodermic needle and a small vial of antibiotics.

A memory slipped back into Sherlock’s mind of another small vial of clear liquid. He remembered the night he first met the boy who wanted to be a doctor. Sherlock wanted to reach out and touch John again. He wanted to see if John’s skin really was still so very warm. If is hair was still soft. He wanted to know if John’s kisses still tasted of tea and caramel biscuits. If the man still smelled wonderful after sex.

“You’ve pulled a stitch.” John said plainly. “But it doesn’t matter. It will scar worse than I wanted but it’s not like the first scar you’ve gotten.” John quickly glanced over at Sherlock. He saw the brief regret in Sherlock’s eyes and knew his comment caused the pain he hoped for. “I’ll pull the rest later and clean the wound. You will need to be on antibiotics for seven days. Are you allergic to anything now?”

“No,” Sherlock said looking away from the doctor. It hurt too much to see John so cold and indifferent to him.

Sherlock knew he should have expected it. He caused it, but he still didn’t realize how badly it would hurt.

John bent over Sherlock and started to work. He injected around the area and quickly snipped the silk threads. Gently pulling the black thread from the skin, John pinched the wound and checked to make sure there was no seepage. He cleaned the wound and redressed it in silence. Sherlock’s attention focused on John’s hands.

When he was done, John stood up and removed his gloves. “I’ll be back in three days to check it again.”

“You’re coming back? Why?” Sherlock glanced up.

John seemed confused for a moment. Did he really want to come back and see his ex-lover or was he just being a diligent doctor? John fumbled for a moment with his answer before he turned away and started putting his supplies away.

“You don’t seem to want to take my medical advice so I must treat you as a difficult patient. I will be forced into checking up on you because you won’t take care of yourself.”

“Well you knew that years ago. You knew I lacked any self-preservation.” Sherlock said pulling the sheet back over his bare legs and groin.

John stood up and seemed at a lost. Sherlock was not arguing with him. The last few months the two of them had been together, they seemed to be arguing about everything. About Sherlock’s drug use. Mycroft’s business. John’s future in the army. It had been horrible and left John crushed. But now, Sherlock was agreeing with him. He was accepting the blame and repeating back to the doctor the same accusations John said years before.

“Yes, well . . . I’m going to write a script for ciprofloxin. Can you take that?”

“Never took it before.” Sherlock said.

“If you have any difficulties, please go to the A and E or contact me. Otherwise, I’ll be back in three days.” John said as he rushed from the room.

He closed the door and went to sit down on the couch. He pulled out his prescription pad and started to write the order for the antibiotic. Ryan and Jerry were standing in the room watching the doctor when the lift doors opened and a grey haired man stepped out with two PC’s.

“Where is he?” The grey haired man asked, sounding more like an order than a request.

Ryan and Jerry started to argue with the man as John glanced up. The voice of the grey haired man was familiar. John recognized the face, the warm brown eyes and stern look.

“Greg?” John stood up and stepped closer to the police officer. Ryan and Jerry stepped back.

“John?!”

John held his hand out and Greg Lestrade took it and shook it vigorously. Ryan and Jerry glanced at each other wondering if they had been set up.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Greg asked. “I thought you two were . . .”

“Yes, we were . . . are. We’re not together. I haven’t come back to him.” John said shaking his head.

“Where are you been? I mean I got the invitation to your graduation then you just disappeared. Did you ever get to be a surgeon? I thought maybe you immigrated or something. Did you join the army like you wanted to do?”

John hesitated for a moment before he answered. His eyes shifting around the room. “Yeah, I joined. I was off being shot at.”

Greg leaned back at the comment. He still had hold of John’s hand as he asked. “What happened?”

“I got shot.”

Greg dropped John’s hand. “Oh, mate. I’m sorry.” Greg sounded sincere. Many people didn’t when John told them he had been injured in the war, but Greg Lestrade actually sounded real. “Have you been back long?”

“Just a few months. I’ve been working and avoiding everything that reminds me of the past.”

Greg glanced around the room for a moment. “Why are you here, then?”

John seemed confused for a moment. “Oh, I’m here as a doctor. Seeing a patient.”

“Sherlock?”

John rolled his eyes and smirked. “Still can’t take care of himself. Are you here to visit?”

“I’m here to arrest him.” Greg said seriously. “There was a shooting down in Dockland four days ago. Witnesses claim they saw Sherlock there.”

John felt his stomach drop and his mouth go dry.

“Good witnesses?”

“Not a bus load of nuns but one or two that are willing to make a deal.”

John glanced quickly at Ryan and Jerry. He saw both men were deciding if they could dispose of three police officers bodies.

“Your witnesses are wrong, Greg.” John said plainly. “Sherlock couldn’t have been there.”

“Oh, explain.” Greg raised an eyebrow. He never thought John had alibied Sherlock in the past and after Sherlock had thrown him out so many years ago, Lestrade really doubted John would do so now.

“Sherlock’s has the flu; for a week now. He’s too sick to even get out of bed.” John tore the prescription off the pad and handed it to Ryan. “Get this filled and keep him in bed. Push the fluids.”

“The flu? Are you joking?”

“Greg, I’m still a doctor if not a surgeon. I know the flu when I see it. That is why I’m here. Private physician. Sherlock called me in almost a week ago. He’s been sick ever since. He hasn’t been able to leave since I saw him.”

“Is it contagious? Can I speak to him?” Greg asked.

“Have you ever seen the flu not be contagious?” John raised an eyebrow.

Greg Lestrade took a moment to look at the other men in the room then back at John.

“Okay, John. If you say he’s been sick here all week, I’ll believe you.” He reached out shook John’s hand again. John felt nauseous. “I’ll have to go have a talk with my witnesses. Let’s meet up later for a pint.”

“Yeah, sure. I’m working at St Bart’s now. Just give me call.” John smiled and went to leave.

He stepped into the lift and turned around to see Greg and two PC’s follow him in. The door closed and the four men rode down to the ground floor in silence. Just as the doors opened, Greg grabbed John by the elbow and led him away from the two police officers.

“John, you’re not planning on seeing Sherlock again are you?” Greg asked quietly.

“Ah, only professionally.” John said. He didn’t know why he felt like he was lying. He had no intentions of seeing Sherlock except professionally.

“Good. He’s changed since you left. He’s not the man you knew. He’s hardened. I honestly believe he is worse that his brother.”

“Is that wishful thinking? Do you want to still believe there is something good in Mycroft that you can reach?” John said in a whisper.

“John, I’ve washed my hands of Mycroft.”

“And I was tossed out by Sherlock. I don’t ever plan on making the same mistake twice.” John pushed the hard edge to his voice.

Greg nodded his head and left John alone in the lobby of the building. The previous conversation replaying over and over again in his head. Did he sincerely believe what he said?

~221~

2005     John tried to be very careful about his alcohol intake. Both his father and sister were alcoholics and the fact it ran in his family made John conscious about how much he drank. He kept it to the weekends and only when he was out. He didn’t want to drink at home and never alone. The only problem with his plan was when he was out with his friends, invariably someone would call on him for free medical advice or expect him to act as a first responder to which ever idiot decided to do something stupid.

“Watson, you’re a doctor. Come ‘ere!” shouted some tall skinny guy.

John was sitting on the couch with his head tipped back over the headrest. His left hand was wrapped tightly around the warm bottle of beer in his hand. It had been a hard week at uni. Test in both chemistry and physiology left him drained and exhausted. His mind was having a difficult time remembering his own name let alone that he was studying to be a doctor.

“Watson! Get your arse over ‘ere.” The boy shouted.

John opened one eye and tried to focus on the man shouting at him.

“What do you want?” John asked trying to sit up.

“Some arse wipe is trying to die in the loo.” The skinny kid said once he had John’s attention.

“And that’s my problem why?”

“You’re a doctor . . . go help him.”

“I’m studying to be a doctor . . . not one yet . . . and how am I supposed to help him. Kill him off quicker?”

The young man grabbed John by the arm and pulled him up off the couch and dragged him through the party. The music was loud and the small house was crowded with the same people John always saw at the various off campus parties. John didn’t know exactly who owned the house or who was throwing the party. Those things never really mattered to him as much as the fact that there would be beer there and he could get a free drink.

The young man opened the door of the bathroom and waved his arm to show John the body laying on the floor.

“My folks will take my fuckin’ house away if someone dies here. Take care of him. I can’t lose my place to live while in school.”

The skinny tall boy shoved John into the small bathroom with the prone body and slammed the door shut. John caught himself before he tipped over and fell on top of the body. This was not how John wanted to spend his Friday night. He sighed heavily and slid to the floor. It was obvious the unconscious man had been sick. The room stunk of vomit and beer. For a moment John struggle to remember his first aid course. He fumbled for a moment and found the unconscious man’s pulse in this neck. John rolled the man over and placed him into recovery position, protecting his breathing and making sure he wasn't going to aspirate if he got sick again.

John’s knees were folded and resting against his chest in the small room. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He just wanted to go to sleep now and forget about how badly his weekend was going.

The door burst opened and another young man crashed in.

“Sorry mate, oc . . . occupied. Try the garden.” John’s words were slurring now.

The new visitor ignored John and bent over the motionless man. He started patting down the man, pushing his hands into pockets and under the waistband.

“Hold on, mate! What the fuck . . .” John tried to shift and stop the new boy from pinching anything. He grabbed the new boy’s wrist.

The boy turned and looked at John. Dark wavy curls over a pale angular face, with silver blue eyes.

“He took my stash.”

“I know you, don’t I?” John asked.

“Of course, we made out last weekend in another bathroom.” Sherlock said.

“We did?!” John seemed surprised.

“Honestly, if you are going to forget so easily, maybe you should reconsider a career as a surgeon.”

“How did you know . . . did I tell you I wanted to be a surgeon when we . . . I’m not gay!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and returned to searching the unconscious man.

“Wilkes took my cocaine. I want it back!”

“You said we made out. I’m not gay.”

“We kissed. Three times while you were hiding in the bathroom. I told you I wanted to fuck you and you said you weren’t gay. I deduced you were studying to be a doctor and the size of your hands would make you a perfect candidate for surgical training.” Sherlock quickly relayed the facts.

John blinked. “We kissed? Did . . . did . . .”

“Did you enjoy it? Yes.” Sherlock said as he stood up glaring down at Wilkes.

“Did you enjoy it?” John asked.

Sherlock’s attention turned to John. The blonde had a lopsided grin on his face and he looked incredibly young all at once. It was like Sherlock hadn’t actually seen the boy before. The two young men stared at each other for a brief moment then there was a loud crash. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder as he heard people shouting. He quickly grabbed John and pulled him to his feet.

“Wait a tick.” John said as he was yanked out of the small room.

“Time to go, John.” Sherlock said.

There was shouting and a woman screamed. People were running every direction and there was the sound of more crashing and breaking glass.

“What’s happening?” John asked as Sherlock pulled him into a room then through an open window.

“Police raid.”

The two young men fell into a set of bins. The leg of John’s jeans got torn as he scrambled on the asphalt. Sherlock was already on his feet and grabbing John’s elbow. The two took off running down the alley way and disappeared into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful comments and the all the kudos. I hope you enjoy the story.


	3. Chapter 3

2017      John walked steadily down Euston towards the tube station. The foot traffic had lightened as it was past nine am and most of the people were already at work in the various buildings. John tried to not wonder why he had lied to Greg about Sherlock being sick. He didn’t want to think about why it was so easy for him to alibi the man who had crushed his heart so badly a seven years before.

John had been spent years trying to forget William Sherlock Scott Holmes. He wanted to never see the man’s face again. Never hear his name or remember how he made John shiver when he touched him. John simply wanted to forget. Forget everything. The excitement of their time together. The passion he found in Sherlock’s arms. The taste of his kisses. And the realization John would always come second to the drugs.

John blinked his eyes trying to ignore the fact they were beginning to burn with unshed tears. He quickened his pace and chose to fall into a military march as he walked down the pavement. Forced his muscles to remember another time, in hopes his mind would soon follow to the years John was in the army and not the time be spent before with Sherlock.

He was three blocks away from the building where Sherlock lived when he noticed the dark saloon driving beside him slowly. John glanced over and thought immediately it was Ryan sent to pick him up and take him back to the St. Bart’s. John didn’t hesitate when he opened the back door and slipped into the leather seats.

“I could have easily caught the tube. You don’t need to take me back.” John said as he turned to see a different man driving the car instead of Ryan. John glanced sideways and saw the last person he ever wanted to see again. He reached for the door handle but the door was already locked and car was speeding away from the kerb.

“It would have been difficult to carry on a private conversation in the crush of morning commuters and I abhor public transportation.”

John wondered if Mycroft Holmes had ever sat on public transportation.

“What do you want?” John said not even trying to keep the disgust from his tone.

“I should congratulate you, John. It’s doctor now, isn’t it.” Mycroft said with a smug expression on his face.

“You bloody well know it is doctor. How many times did you throw it in my face that Sherlock was paying for my medical school?”

“Well, I’m sure you are making amends now to repay him.” Mycroft brushed a piece of invisible lint from his trouser’ leg.

“I don’t owe Sherlock or you anything. I worked for my degree and earned it myself.”

“So I am to assume your renewed acquaintance with my brother is for personal reasons?”

John turned to look out the window so Mycroft couldn’t see his face. “What I do and don’t do with Sherlock is not and never has been any of your business. You can let me out at the next light.”

“John, there is no reason to be so . . . hostile.”

“HOSTILE!?” John turned back to glare at the older Holmes. “You threatened to have me shot and dumped into the river! Just because you though I was a bad influence! Me! The drug free uni student without a criminal record!”

“Sherlock has a brilliant mind. Not as brilliant or disciplined as mine but far superior to the average . . . goldfish.” Mycroft gaze slipped up and down John’s body with contempt. “He was better suited to help me than dally with you. I just insisted he come to his senses and step into his rightful place.”

“Rightful place?” John huffed out. “Yes, he made it perfectly clear after five years together he preferred drugs and murder to me. Must make your mother proud.”

The car stopped at the light and John pulled the door handle but it was still locked and he was unable to escape.

“John . . . I must know what your intentions are to my brother. He was quite beside himself when you left him the first time.”

“When I left? He threw me out! He chose to be your sniffer dog and told me to go pound sand.” John snarled.

“Which you gladly did. How many years were you in Afghanistan before you retired?”

“If you know I was in Afghanistan then you bloody well know I didn’t retire. It wasn’t my choice to leave. I would still be there if I could be and not driving around London with a snake!”

“John, I am not the enemy.” Mycroft said emphatically.

“You are to me.” John quickly replied.

Mycroft sighed and glanced out the window. He had had this same conversation with his brother with the same degree of success. None.

“We do not agree on anything except wanting to see Sherlock safe and protected. You must admit that you are the least able between the two of us to do so.”

“Once again, Mycroft you are wrong. I care nothing for Sherlock. He shattered any attachment or concern I might have had for him years ago. And as for keeping Sherlock safe and protected, I can say for a fact you have failed at that too. Maybe you should spend less time kidnapping me and go visit your brother. See for yourself how safe and protected he is.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow as he studied John. He ignored the twinge of guilt that ran through his body.

“Something happened.”

John didn’t say anything. He held Mycroft’s gaze with his own glare.

“Tell, me. Why were you seeing Sherlock?”

“I am unable to discuss personal information regarding my patients without their permission.”

“Patient! What happened?!” Mycroft raised his voice.

“Let me out and go ask Sherlock. I’m tired of being ambushed by Holmes.”

Mycroft grip tightened on the handle of his umbrella. “I am not one to give hollow threats, Doctor Watson. Stay away from my brother. You nearly destroyed him last time you left him. I will not let you harm him again.”

John’s confusion showed briefly before he turned away from the criminal. “Let me out of this car and I need never see another Holmes again.”

“Do you swear?” Mycroft pushed.

John turned back and glared. “Only at you. Now let me go!”

Mycroft stared for a moment at John, then tapped his umbrella tip on the floor. It made a muted thrumming sound but was loud enough for the driver to hear. He pulled the car over to the kerb and unlocked the doors. John didn’t say anything as he got out. He stood staring at the saloon as it drove away, then he turned to look where he was. It was right in front of his building with his flat. Mycroft’s message was quite clear. He knew exactly where John lived and if John didn’t do as he wanted, Mycroft would visit him again.

~221~

2005     Sherlock rushed John through the streets and back alleys of London till he came to Montague Street near ULC. Sherlock opened a window of a first floor flat and pulled John in behind him.

“Who lives here?” John asked as Sherlock closed the window.

“I do.”

John glanced around the sitting room with its miss matched furniture and cluttered bookshelf.

“Why did we sneak in if you live here?”

“The front is being watched. The idiots my brother hires never think to check the sides or the back.”

John walked around the room looking at the books on anatomy, sociology, and criminal justice. He picked up a forensic periodical that was opened to paper on failure of gunshot residue testing.

“Are you studying to be a policeman or something?” John asked confused by the variety of reading material.

“I’m studying chemistry, but anthropology and criminal justice also interest me.” Sherlock flopped down in a black and chrome chair.

“Oh,” John sat down on the couch still confused as he why they were here. “You said your brother has people watching the front of your flat . . . is he afraid something will happen to you?”

“You could say that. I think it is more correct to say he is afraid I will cause something to happen. He would like me to fold up and do his bidding but I’m not inclined to do so.”

“That’s why we left when the police showed up at the party. You don’t want your brother to know that you were at a party.”

Sherlock smiled. “The police showed up to raid drug sales that were going down in the other rooms. I had already bought my party favors but Wilkes took my stash and apparently used most of it in the bathroom where you found him.”

“Party favors? Drugs? You take drugs?” John asked astounded.

“Oh don’t be such a simpleton, of course, how else do you expect me to tolerate the idiots I am surrounded by.” Sherlock waved his hand as if pushing the idea away.

“I think you would be considered the idiot for taking the drugs in the first place.” John said looking sideways at the slightly older boy. “So why am I here? Surely you don’t expect me to have your drugs?”

“No I’m sure Wilkes took them. I’ll be sure to make him repay me as soon as he gets out of jail. No, you are here for a different reason. If I can’t get high tonight, then maybe I can get laid.”

“WHAT!?” John voice cracked as he shouted.

“You are still obviously a virgin. I thought maybe you would like to remedy that.”

“Look Sherlock, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but I’m not gay.” John said as he stood.

Sherlock smiled and stood up. He stalked John across the room as the younger boy backed up into a wall.

“You keep saying that, but when I reminded you that we kissed, I noticed your interest was whether or not I enjoyed it.” Sherlock stepped closer and leaned into John’s space. He towered over the blonde, looking intently in the man’s blue eyes. “The answer is yes, I did, very much. I find you interesting.”

“You find me . . . interesting? Isn’t that what someone says when they can’t think of anything nice to say about another person?” John placed his hand flat on Sherlock’s chest and pushed the taller boy back.

Sherlock looked confused for a moment. Normally, Sherlock’s partners were be on their knees begging for Sherlock to take them to bed. Sex, like so many other things had become predictable for Sherlock. Within five minutes of meeting a prospective partner Sherlock knew how the entire episode would play out. Everything from the seduction to the negotiation to the final act and the conclusion. Drugs fortunately dulled his senses enough that occasionally he was delayed in deducing the encounter but eventually all occurred as he expected. All except John Watson.

Sherlock expect to John to jump at the chance to lose his virginity. To willing submit to Sherlock’s advances. But instead of leaning forward to be kissed, John pushed Sherlock away.

Sherlock took a step back to look more carefully at John’s face. He didn’t see any hesitation or fear in the young man’s eyes. He saw interest but also something else. Something new and different. He wasn’t sure he knew exactly what it was.

“You enjoyed kissing me before.” Sherlock said honestly.

“I think I was drunk, before.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to kiss me again? Or that you regret kissing me in the first place?”

John hesitated and his eyes glanced away. “No . . . not exactly. I just . . . I never thought about kissing a guy before. But you . . .”

“I what?” Sherlock asked taking a step forward again.

“You’re overwhelming. I don’t know if I really want to or I can’t help myself.”

Sherlock paused for a moment, then took a step backwards. “I see. Well then maybe for empirical evidence to determine if I am actually correct that you definitely have homosexual tendencies, you should initiate the next physical encounter.”

“You’re saying I should kiss you first this time?” John raised an eyebrow. The corner of him lips turned up slightly and Sherlock felt an overwhelming urge to trace the line of John’s mouth with is tongue.

“For the sake of scientific discovery.” Sherlock said dropping his voice to a deeper register. His ego crowed when he noticed John shiver at the sound of his voice.

John hesitated then took a step forward. He could feel his heart begin to beat faster and a warmth begin to fill him from his stomach outward. Just before the two men were close enough to let their lips brush, the front door of the flat kicked open. John jumped back from Sherlock. His heart pounding in double time.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” A man dressed in a rumpled dark grey suit with a white shirt came in. He was wearing scuffed leather shoes and a grease stain was visible on his red tie.

“Dimmock, what are you doing here?” Sherlock growled. Sherlock maneuvered himself so he was standing in front of John, blocking Dimmock from seeing the younger boy.

“Tracking down a lead, Holmes. I was involved on a raid over in Mile’s End tonight. Guess what I found.” Dimmock teased.

“No idea, your manners?”

“No, no, no.” The man came closer to Sherlock then without warning he punched Sherlock in the gut with a quick jab.

Sherlock grunted as he doubled over and fell to his knees. John immediately went down with him. His arms wrapping around Sherlock to protect his fall.

“What the fuck?!” John shouted.

“Tell you toy to go, Holmes.” Dimmock said as he loomed over the two younger men.

“Fuck off.” John growled at the man. “Get out of here before I call the cops.”

Dimmock laughed and started walking around the flat. He passed by the desk and with his arm he swept the contents of the desk top onto the floor.

“I am the police you little fairy.” Dimmock said as he leered at John. The younger boy said nothing but continued to glare. “I’m here to discuss a little drugs transaction Mister Holmes had tonight with Sebastian Wilkes.”

“Dimmock, you should leave while you still can.” Sherlock said as he sat back onto his heels and leaned into John’s body.

“Oh, I’ll leave when I’m good and ready. The question is what will I leave with? You or a reason to forget that you were with Wilkes tonight before he passed out on the floor of a bathroom.”

“Is Wilkes dead?” Sherlock asked.

“No, he’s in hospital under arrest. Now back to the question about you.” Dimmock rushed forward and kicked Sherlock in the stomach. The dark haired man doubled over again.

John stood, he fist balled ready to fight. “I don’t give a shite if you are a cop or not! You can’t fucking be here and do that!”

Dimmock pulled at blackjack out of pocket and waved it a John. “Just try me, bitch. I would more than enjoy dumping your arse in holding. Imagine how much fun the boys would have knowing Sherlock Holmes’ fuck toy was in the nick.”

Fear spiked through John but he didn’t show it. He kept himself ready to attack, his heart racing and his mind focused on how to cause the greatest amount of pain the quickest.

“Just tell me what you want Dimmock and then get out. The front is watched and I’m sure Mycroft is on his way over here now. He will want to know why a detective is bothering me this late at night.” Sherlock gasped from the floor.

Dimmock seemed to ashen slightly and took a step back. John kept his protective stance over Sherlock.

“How much?” Sherlock asked as he slowly stood up, using John’s body for balance.

“How much?!” John shouted. “You’re going to pay this prick to leave?!”

Sherlock didn’t answer John. He stood up straight groaning as he did so. He stared at Dimmock wanting an answer.

“Two hundred and I’ll leave.” Dimmock said. “No one needs know you were there tonight. That includes your brother.”

“Two hundred! Where would a student get two hundred pounds?!” John growled at the man.

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out slim money clip. He pulled two bills out and handed them to Dimmock.

“Get out and stay out!”

“Or what, you’ll tell big brother? We both know what will happen if he finds out you’ve been using again. So long independence. It really is hypocritical of him.”

Sherlock’s eyes slipped over to John who was fortunately still too angry to catch the subtleties of the conversation.

Dimmock smiled and pocketed the money. He looked both Sherlock and John up and down.

“Always a pleasure to serve and protect the public.” He turned and walked out of the flat, leaving the front door standing open.

As soon as he was gone, John quickly turned his attention to Sherlock. The fighter persona was gone and now John was carefully running his hands over Sherlock’s body.

“Where do you hurt? Are you bleeding? No, bleeding would probably be internal. We should go to hospital and get you checked out.” John’s questions were rapid fire as he assessed Sherlock’s injuries.

Sherlock gently pushed John’s hands away. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry?! You got kicked in the gut, Sherlock. You could have internal injuries. Your liver or spleen could be damaged. We need to get you checked out.”

Sherlock eased himself over to his black and chrome chair. He slowly sat down.

“No, it’s fine. It’s not the first time Dimmock has paid me a visit.” Sherlock said as he sighed.

“We need to report him. Let me at least call the police.” John pulled his mobile out of his back pocket.

Sherlock reacted quickly. He swatted John’s wrist and phone flew from John’s shaky grasp. It hit the floor and shattered the screen. The back broke off and the battery fell out.

“Fuck!” John hissed. He picked up the pieces of the broken mobile. “I know it wasn’t much, but that was all I could afford. Damn it Sherlock. Why did you . . .”

“John, just shut up. You’re making my head hurt.” Sherlock moaned as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back in the chair.

John’s attention shifted rapidly again. He stepped closer, leaning over the other man. With his thumb, he pulled open one of Sherlock’s eyelids.

“Dull ache or sharp pain?”

Sherlock pouted and tried to glare through one open eyelid. “The pain is about five foot six and blonde.”

John huffed out a breath as he stood up straight. “Sorry being almost a doctor tends to make one focus on another’s wellbeing. Sherlock, I should take you to hospital to be checked out. I don’t think you hit your head but I am worried about your abdomen.”

“I told you I am fine, John. And since the mood has been ruined for the evening, you should probably go before my brother gets here.”

“Is he really coming over? That wasn’t just something you said to get Dimmock to leave?”

“I’m sure he is on his way.” Sherlock said.

“Well, then I’ll wait here till he shows up.” John sat down in the chair opposite Sherlock’s.

“What? Why?”

“Because you shouldn’t be alone. Someone should keep an eye on you.”

“I’m not a child, John.” Sherlock barked.

“I’m not sure about that.” John mocked. “Anyone who won’t listen to a doctor when he is injured doesn’t impress me as being very mature.”

“Almost doctor.” Sherlock reminded John of his previous comments.

John’s smile slipped away and he softened his expression into honest concern. “Truthfully, Sherlock, I can’t leave you not knowing if you are alright or not. You should lay down and get some rest. It is best for you and I’ll just wait here for your brother. I’ll explain everything.”

“Everything? You’ll tell him we were at a party that got raided by the police for illicit drug sales and then were extorted by a member of the Metropolitan Police department?” Sherlock asked sarcastically.

“Well, no. How about I brought you home after you were mugged. That would explain the injuries and why Dimmock was here.”

“You would lie for me?” Sherlock seemed surprised.

John had never lied before in his life, but for some reason he felt the need to protect the older boy even if it meant betraying his moral code. John seemed to flounder deciding how to answer Sherlock.

“It wouldn’t help my future as a doctor is I got involved in a drug raid or a corrupted police officer.” John glanced away from Sherlock.

“John, if you are going to lie, you will need to learn how to look someone in the eye while you do it.” Sherlock said coolly. John didn’t answer him. “I’m not tired. You can go lay down in my bed. I want to stay up and do some research.”

“Sherlock, I’m supposed to stay here to keep an eye on you. You go lay down and I’ll sit in the corner of the room and keep a watchful eye.”

“Impossible,” Sherlock answered. “I never can sleep while someone is watching me. Besides, it’s only Friday. I’ll be up for another eighteen hours. Go on, I’ll be fine.”

“Up for another eighteen hours? Why? Did you take something?” John asked looking suspiciously at Sherlock.

“I don’t need much sleep. At least stretch out on the sofa. It is quite comfortable.” Sherlock waved his hand over to the low green couch.

John sighed. “No, I’m fine here.”

Sherlock stood up and started shifting the disturbed contents of his desk top back into place. John watched till his head bobbed and drooped. He thought he heard a violin playing at one point, then he felt warm and comfortable. John fell into a deeper sleep. Deeper than he had enjoyed in a long time. His dreams of classes and exams did not bother him. He was warm and comfortable and completely at ease.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful comments and kudos. I can't really give a summary of the chapter since it's taking place at two different years, but information is coming out regarding why Sherlock and John broke up seven years ago.

2017       The lift doors opened on Sherlock’s private flat and Mycroft Holmes stepped out. Ryan and Jerry were already approaching to stop whomever was getting out of the lift without permission. When the two bodyguards saw the older Holmes they quickly backed up and tried to look as non-threating as they could.

“Mister Holmes, ah . . . Sherlock is sick . . . he’s not feeling well.” Ryan said. His eyes darting between Mycroft’s cold blue-grey eyes and the door leading to Sherlock’s bedroom.

“So I’ve been informed. I take it he is still in bed.”

Mycroft didn’t wait for an answer but instead marched to the closed door and entered. Sherlock was sitting up in bed. He was wearing an old t-shirt with faded lettering. Mycroft could barely make out the letters RMAC. The dark grey sheets were pooled around his waist and various newspapers were scattered across the bed.

Sherlock glanced up as soon as the door opened, then his face scowled at the sight of his brother. He quickly returned his attention back to the newspapers, ignoring his brother’s entrance.

“Glad to see that you are not on your death bed.” Mycroft could see his brother was still not feeling well. The indications of a fever was still present. The flushed skin and the dark swollen eyes. Sherlock’s lips were dry and chapped and his hair was flat and lifeless.

“Go away. I’m sick.” Sherlock said.

“So I have been informed.” Mycroft slowly walked around the room secretively glancing at the various headlines. “Have you enjoyed your re-acquaintance with the good doctor?”

Sherlock looked up at his brother with a heated expression that was not caused by his fever. Sherlock shook out the paper he was holding and folded it closed.

“Who told you?”

“I spoke to John.” Mycroft said as he sat down in a chair by the window.

“You spoke to him?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I sincerely doubt that. John hates you worse than he hates me. I can’t imagine he would willing engage in a conversation with you other than to call you names.”

“Well, he might have been prohibited from avoiding to speak to me.” Mycroft mused.

“You mean you kidnapped him and interrogated him. Honestly, Mycroft, must you insert yourself in every aspect of my life?”

“I was just wondering why all the sudden you reestablished contact with John. He’s been back in London for nine months and you never made an attempt to see him. And before that, you knew basically where he was at all time but you did nothing to search him out. For seven years now you have secretly pinned for the man, while doing nothing about it.”

“And whose fault is that?” Sherlock hissed.

“You certainly can’t blame me, Sherlock. I only presented the facts to you. If you were going to remain working with me, then it was impossible for you to keep John safe. His presence was an unnecessary distraction that was going to cost you your life or his.” Mycroft spoke as if he was reciting a previous argument the two had had several times in the past. “Do you believe that seven years have lessen the danger you are in or that you put those in who care about you?”

“John doesn’t care about me. He has made it very clear that I am nothing to him but an uncooperative patient.” Sherlock said turning away from his brother’s gaze.

“And that is why he has treated you twice for some injury.” Mycroft said as he leaned forward in his chair. “And yes, I know you are not sick. You were injured, probably a gunshot wound. That would explain why Gregory came here.”

Sherlock picked up on the mention of the Detective Inspector’s name. “Gregory? Interesting that you know he came here. Am I to presume that you have returned to spying on me with cameras or are you having the good inspector followed again. Or have you always had the man followed. Behaving like a voyeuristic stalker lusting after what you are not man enough to take in the first place.”              

“We are discussing you and the good doctor. Why did you reestablish contact with John Watson?”

Sherlock looked away again. He didn’t want to have this conversation with Mycroft. It reminded him too much of another conversation he had seven years ago when he had to rip his heart out.

“It wasn’t my choice. Ryan and Jerry were supposed to grab a doctor from an A and E. I didn’t send them specifically to retrieve John. I didn’t even know he was back in London. Last I heard, he was in Germany. I was desperate and when Ryan stepped in the room with John, I didn’t have any other options.”

“What was it?” Mycroft asked.

“Gunshot wound. I was given information that Moriarty was going to be Dockland from a reliable source. I went there with the boys. It was a trap. We had to shoot our way out. I know I kill two of them, but I was shot in the leg. John removed the bullet and stitched me up.” Sherlock explained.

“I see,” said Mycroft. He paused for moment considering the information. “The source?”

“Dead. I sent Jerry to track them down and he found them shot. Each on had been shot twice in the chest and once in the head.”

“Interesting, special services’ kill. And now speaking of the military, John Watson?”

“I was bleeding badly. I just sent them after any doctor. John was the last person I would have pulled into this. I was just as surprised to see him as he was to see me.” Sherlock said. His voice taking on an exasperated tone.

“You saw him twice. I picked him up after he left here today.”

Sherlock twisted slightly in the bed. Pain stabbed at his leg and he winced.

“I didn’t follow John’s orders. I tore the stitches and developed a fever. He came by to treat me. He gave me some antibiotics and cleaned and redressed the wound.”

“Do I need to have my private physician check you out?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. He didn’t think John was an incompetent doctor but John’s feelings towards Sherlock may have compromised his ethics.

“No, I’m fine. John prescribed antibiotics. My fever is down considerably. Tomorrow I can return to my search for Moriarty.”

“I don’t believe that would be advisable. It is obvious that Moriarty knows you are looking for him. You will need to pull yourself back into the shadows.”

“I don’t see any reason why . . .” Sherlock began to argue with his brother.

“Think about what has occurred in the last four days Sherlock. You were deceived by trusted contacts. You were shot and you have reestablished contact with someone who was used against you before and could easily be used again.” Mycroft rolled his eyes at his brother’s lack of observation.

“Moriarty used John once but John is not close to me now. He wouldn’t even register on Moriarty’s horizon.”

“Wouldn’t he? Two things I bring to your attention. First, after denying any emotion for the good doctor for seven years, you chose today to wear that shirt. It is one of John’s old shirts, is it not?” Sherlock refused to answer his brother. Mycroft continued, “Second, John lied for you. Lied to the police and gave you an alibi. How often does a man you hates you, jeopardize his own freedom to protect you?”

“How do you know that?” Sherlock asked.

“My informant within Scotland Yard relayed Gregory’s report to me. It contained John’s statement from his interview with the police earlier today.”

Sherlock looked up at his brother amazed. He blinked several times trying to grasp all the meanings behind John’s actions.

“He told Lestrade I was sick with the flu? He lied for me?”

“Yes, prevented the Detective Inspector from interviewing you and provide you with an alibi for the shooting in Dockland.”

Sherlock shoved the newspapers from his lap and stood up. His leg pained him as he started to pace around the bedroom but he disregarded it.

 _‘John had lied for him!’_ he thought. ‘ _Why had John lied for him?’_ Then another terrifying thought occurred to Sherlock. If Mycroft’s informant had told his brother what was in Lestrade’s report, then Moriarty’s informant could too. Sherlock was certain beyond a doubt that the killer had someone and several someone’s on the inside of Scotland Yard. The question was ‘ _would Moriarty believe John was being forced to lie or did he do it of his own volition.’_

“We must work faster to discover Moriarty’s plan and location. He can’t be allowed to threaten John again. Not like last time.” Sherlock said as he finally turned back and looked at his brother.

“I do not believe we can work any faster than we already have. We made mistakes and been discovered, otherwise how do you explain the trap set for you at Dockland. You could have been killed, Sherlock. That is unacceptable.”

Sherlock laughed. “Don’t start acting like you care, Mycroft. Your concern is only to control me. Remember, you are the one who said ‘Caring is not an advantage.’”

~221~

2005   Sunday morning, John was sound asleep when he heard shouting and the banging of a door. He burrowed his head deeper into the pillow and pulled the blanket up over himself. Cocooned in the warmth he noticed a wonderful scent. Like spice or cinnamon. John purred and rubbed his face into the pillow trying to elicit more of that aroma.

John ignored the voices that seemed far too close. He just kept his eyes closed, wishing himself back to sleep, as he heard the sound of pounding feet on the stairs.

~~

Mycroft Holmes hadn’t even knocked on his brother’s door. He had the lock picked as he entered his brother’s building. Sherlock met him on the stairs. Still dressed in his pajamas and his blue dressing gown. His bare feet padding down the wooden stairs.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock growled.

“Brother dear, we had an agreement. And from what I see, you have already broken it.” Mycroft smiled as he stepped aside and let four large men rush in behind him.

The three men started up the stairs, pushing Sherlock out of the way. Sherlock tried to grab them and hold them back but the last man simply overpowered the younger skinner boy.

“I know Dimmock was here last night. I also know he was involved in the raid on a house where illicit drug sales were going on.”

Mycroft watched as his man grabbed Sherlock’s elbow and pulled him up the stairs and into the flat.

“It is obvious to know what happened next. How much did you pay him to not relay the information to me that Jim Moriarty was here with you?”

Mycroft stepped into the sitting room of the flat and noticed the body shape form under the blanket on the couch. The corners of Mycroft’s mouth curled up in a sardonic smile. He marched over and grabbed the corner of the blanket and whipped it off similar to a magician on the stage during his act. All he was missing was the drum roll.

“Come along, Jim. You are fooling no one.”

Mycroft gazed down on the blonde haired boy with the big sapphire blue eyes. The next words Mycroft was about to say were trapped in his throat. He shook his head thinking maybe he needed to clear his vision. There should be a thin, pale, dark haired male on the couch, not a solid, tan, fair haired boy.

“Who are you?” he asked confused.

“John.”

“Who . . . where is Jim?”

“Who is Jim?”

John glance over at Sherlock who was presently being restrained by a bulky man in a dark suit. Sherlock’s face was radiant as he sneered at his brother.

“If you had been polite enough to ask, brother dear, I would have told you I haven’t seen Jim since you warned him off. This is my friend, John Watson.”

Mycroft glanced back and forth between the young man laying on the couch and his brother. The blanket still clutched in his hand, limb and drooping like Mycroft’s comprehension of the scene.

“Dimmock, he was here last night.” Mycroft finally said.

“Yes he was!” John quickly sat up and glared at the older Holmes. “I’m going to file a complaint against him! Are you his supervisor?”

“John, no . . .” Sherlock warned softly from his side of the room.

Mycroft quickly picked up the look his brother was giving the stranger.

“Why do you wish to file a complaint against the officer?”

“He is corrupt!” John continued ignoring Sherlock’s warning. “He came here last night. Attacked Sherlock then demanded money!”

“A bribe. For what?” Mycroft turned his attentions back to Sherlock.

Sherlock stared his brother down and refused to answer. One of the other men Mycroft had brought with him, walked up to the auburn haired man and whispered in his ear. Mycroft spun on the man and nearly shouted.

“What do you mean the place is clean?!”

“We’ve looked everywhere, sir. No drugs.” The man said ducking his head in apology.

A sarcastic smile grew on Sherlock’s face. Mycroft turned and glared at his younger brother.

“If you weren’t using drugs, why did Dimmock extort a bribe from you last night?”

“Because of me.” John said from the couch. Mycroft glanced back at him. “I’m a . . . a medical student. We were at a party last night and Sherlock realized they were selling drugs there. He got me out before the police arrived. If I had been arrested, I would have been kicked out of school. I wouldn’t be able to sit for my boards.”

“You’re a medical student. Are you now his dealer too?” Mycroft asked as he struggled for a justification for the raid.

“I don’t sell drugs!” John shouted and stood up. “How dare you make such an accusation!”

Mycroft turned back to his brother.

“You know the requirements of your independence, Sherlock. You are to remain clean and in school. My spies have told me you miss every one of your lectures this week.”

“Did they also tell you that I am better versed in those subjects than the professors? Seriously, I should be teaching the class on contemporary anthropology.” Sherlock spoke with contempt.

“And if I demand you take a drug test right now?”

“You would be further embarrassed. There are no drugs here, I haven’t been using, and somehow you confused John Watson for Jim Moriarty. Maybe you should consider a holiday, Mycroft. I see the strain of business is wearing on you.”

Mycroft Holmes stared at his younger brother for several seconds before he waved his hand and the body guard released Sherlock.

“I don’t believe a word out of your mouth Sherlock, but it is obvious that your pet is too naïve to lie.” Mycroft turned and addressed John. “Do not concern yourself with Detective Dimmock. I will deal with him.”

Mycroft suddenly seem to realize he was still holding the blanket up in the air. He dropped and melodramatically wiped his hands as if he had been holding something disgusting. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes again. John wasn’t sure if he should be offended or laugh. He just glanced over at Sherlock and shrugged.

Mycroft waved his hands and his men followed the man out of the flat. The sound of the feet stomping down the stairs and slamming of the front door announced their departure.

Sherlock glance over at John whose eyes were still fixed on where Mycroft had just been standing.

“So I take it that is your brother.”

“Yes, the arse.”

“What does he do for a living that he could have men come in here and search your flat on Sunday morning?” John asked as he collapsed back down on the couch.

“He’s a criminal, John.” Sherlock said calmly. John glanced back up at the other boy. “He is one of the most dangerous men in all of England.”

Sherlock watched as John paled. He wondered if the younger boy was going to get sick.

“I guess I shouldn’t be here either.” John said glancing around.

“I wouldn’t say that.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a beta for this story so if you see a glaring mistake please let me know. Thank you.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos. I'm glad you are enjoying the story so far.

2017       John was still angry the next day. He couldn’t believe that Mycroft Holmes had the audacity to question him after kidnapping him. He hated Mycroft and blamed him for turning Sherlock against him. He was coming onto shift when Cora called him over to the desk.

“Doctor Watson, there is a call for you on line two. Said it was one of your patients but I don’t recognize the name.”

John took the phone and the woman pressed the button to connect the call.

“Hello, this is John Watson,” John said into the line.

“Hey, Doc. This is Ryan. Um . . . I’ve been told to call you.”

“Is Sherlock alright? Has the fever gotten worse?” John glanced down at his watched and wondered if he could leave his shift.

“No, I mean he’s fine, doc. That’s not why I’m calling.” John could hear the other man speak to someone while holding is hand over the receiver. “Yes, okay. Doc, I’m calling to tell you that you don’t need to come back in two days. Mister Holmes is going to go to another doc. He’s fine and he’s taking the medicine you gave him. He just doesn’t need you come back and see him again.”

“Oh, okay . . . alright. If he has another physician available to him, then by all means.” John didn’t want to focus on the pain he felt in his chest. He glanced up and saw Cora looking at him. Her face was screwed up in a question, but John shook his head to let her know everything was alright. He returned to Ryan on the phone. “Thanks for calling.”

“Ta, doc.”

The call ended and John was left standing at the nurses’ station staring down at the receiver in his hand. John felt a hollow sensation in his chest. A flash of deja’vu came to John. He remember how it hurt when Sherlock told him to leave seven years ago. This wasn’t as bad; by no means as painful, but it was a shadow of the past feelings. The sense of worthlessness. He couldn’t even be bothered to call John himself. John wanted to tell himself it didn’t matter. He didn’t want to hear the man’s voice again. He didn’t want go back to Sherlock. He couldn’t go back. But that didn’t help. There was the fleeting moment when his heart remember how much it loved Sherlock Holmes.

Two days later, John was working an afternoon shift in the A & E when there was a crash and shout for doctor. John and two orderlies rushed to the entrance doors where a tall man came in carrying a teenager. The teenager was limp in the tall blonde’s arms. He was thin and looked like he hadn’t bathed in a week.

“I found him in an alley. I think he’s overdosed.” The older man said.

The orderlies lifted the kid from the man’s arms and set him on a gurney. John already had his stethoscope out and listening to the boy’s breathing and heart.

“Any idea what he took?” John asked.

“No, maybe heron. There were needles nearby.”

“Get me blood, basic tox panel, CBC, Lytes, and a Chem 12. Also cath him and get me a urine dip stick. I want to be ready to set up for intubation if we need to. Have the naloxone ready if the dip stick comes back positive for opioids.” John barked the orders with precision and authority. The nurses rushed through the procedures with experience.

The man who had brought the kid in stood off to the side and watched as John and nurses started to work. They cut off his dirty clothes and left the boy naked on the gurney. A central line was inserted into the boy’s clavicle vein because the veins in his arms were collapsed. The heart monitor beeped frighteningly slow as John slipped an intubation tube down the kid’s throat.

The urine drug test came back positive of heron and opioids. John injected the young man with a syringe of naloxone, the heron antagonist. Within minutes the boy’s breathing improved and heart rate returned to normal.

John leaned over the boy and flashed a pen light in the boy’s eyes. They responded to the light closing the iris. John released a deep sigh and stood back.

“Good job everyone. Let’s get him admitted to ICU and find out if he has any family.” John said as he watched the nurse cover the boy’s torso with a warm blanket.

John stepped away from the boy and up to the stranger who had brought him in.

“Any idea who he could be?” John asked.

“Not a clue. Just some street urchin. I found him in the alley behind the pub.”

“Good thing too. He was within minutes of dying when you brought him in.” John said as he held out his hand to the man. “You saved his life.”

“No, doctor. I think that was you. Let me buy you a drink.” The stranger said taking John’s hand and shaking it hard.

John smiled. “On duty, but thanks. Maybe next time.”

“Look, after work, come by the Grey Horse over by Barbican Tube station. My shift starts at eight. First round free for you and your team.”

John laughed, and shook his head no. “I’ll be sure to tell my nurses and orderlies, but you may end up regretting the offer.”

“I look forward to seeing you again, doc.”

“John.”

The blonde stranger smiled. “Seb.” He shook John’s hand again.

~~

John hadn’t planned on going over to the Grey Horse. He really didn’t want a drink but after the phone call from Ryan and the long day of fighting off old memories, John decide it was time to make new ones. It was almost nine when John walked into the pub. There were three tables of nurses and orderlies already enjoying the publican’s generosity.

John glanced around and saw Seb behind the bar pulling a beer. As soon as Seb saw John, he smiled and waved. John nodded and smiled back at the man. John walked to the bar instead of joining his coworkers and leaned against the wooden rail.

“Glad to see you made it, John.” Seb set the glass of beer down on the counter and the waitress quickly took it and left. “What can I get you?”

John glanced around at what was behind the bar and shrugged. “What ever you recommend.”

Seb smiled and reached for two small shot glasses. He grabbed a bottle that was high on the shelf behind the bar. Pouring two glasses, John noticed it was a bottle of McCallan. He raised an eyebrow. Seb handed one glass to John and lifted the other in salute.

“To the Yorkshire Warriors.” Seb said then quickly drank down the scotch.

John nodded and drank his too. “The Yorkshire Regiment?”

“The nineteenth.” Seb said as be poured both of them a second glass of scotch. “You?”

“Northumberland Fusiliers.” John said as he except the second drink. The two men toasted each other and set the shot glasses down hard on the wooden bar.

Seb gave a big loud sigh as he stared at John. He put the bottle of expensive scotch back up on the shelf and then turned to pull of beer for John.

“I knew you had to be Army.” Seb said as his attention was on the glass in his hand.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, the way you held yourself today. The way you barked orders. Infantry?”

“RAMC.” John answered taking the beer and sipping it. The two shots of scotch had warmed John nicely and he was beginning to feel good inside. “Medical discharged. Gunshot wound.”

“I was shot in the leg at Sangin, but sent back. Then I was too close to a roadside IED and shattered my left eardrum. After that I was medically discharged too.”

John scowled for a moment. He was too familiar with the devastation of IED.

“How’d you end up here, in London?” John asked.

“Couldn’t live anywhere else, really. Kicked around for a few months. Tried this and that. Then a friend offered me this job. Not as exciting as Helmand Province but getting to clear the pub on Friday night of football fans can be fun.”

John gave a weak laugh. He missed the excitement of the war too, but occasionally he could feel the same adrenaline in the A&E.

“I’m sure you’re over qualified to break up fights between drunks.”

“Yeah, but it’s good to keep my skills up on hand to hand combat.” Seb retuned John’s smile.

The two men quickly fell into a relaxed conversation about their times in the army. Sharing stories and similar adventures. Before John knew it was past one in the morning. He had spent three hours talking to the other soldier.

“Well, I guess it is time for me to go home. You’ll need to close up soon. What’s my tab?”

“Don’t worry about, John.” Seb said as he took John’s empty beer glass away from him.

“No, really. I’ve been drinking all night.” John was reaching for his wallet.

“Tell you what . . . there’s a new club two blocks over. Let me take you dancing tomorrow night and we’ll call it even.”

John looked into the hopeful stare in Seb’s slate grey eyes. The eyes reminded John another set of eyes. Seb’s were not as mesmerizing as Sherlock but they were still as intense. John had come there to make new memories to replace the memories of Sherlock. To forget the pain and abandonment the dark haired man had caused him. Maybe he could replace silver blue eyes for slate grey ones.

“Yeah, sure. I think I would like that too.” John said. “But I should at least know you full name.”

“Sebastian Moran.”

John smiled. “John Watson.” He held his hand out and Seb took it again. This time when they shook hands, there was an undercurrent of warmth. Anticipation.

“I look forward to it, John.”

~221~

2005       John was trying to stay awake but the lecture was just droning on. John’s head rested on his fist and his eyes were drooping closed, once, then twice, then they shut. He felt sleep fold over him as he sat in the warm lecture hall and the man’s monotone voice continued.

The pain was sharp and sudden. An elbow to his ribs. John grunted loudly and jerked in his seat. He knocked his books over and one crashed loudly to the floor.

John sat up straight, his pulse pounding as everyone turned to look at him. Including the lecturer.

“Problem, Mister Watson?”

“No, sir.” John said as he retrieved his book from the floor.

The professor returned to his lecture on the endocrine system as John sat back up. John turned to complain to the person sitting next to him about elbowing him when he was transfixed by a pair of silver blue eyes.

“The man is an idiot.” Sherlock whispered.

“What? Who?” John asked totally confused by Sherlock’s presence. “What are you doing here?”

“I having my brain cells slowly atrophied. I have never sat through a more inane lecture before. His descriptions are completely wrong.” Sherlock turned back to glare at the lecturer who was still speaking in his monotone voice. “He’s confused the positions and functions of the pineal gland with the pituitary. How in the name of all that is logical are you supposed to learn medicine from such a man?”

“I’m not. I supposed to learn anatomy.” John whispered. “I didn’t know you were enrolled in this class.”

“I’m not.” Sherlock said. He sighed heavily and rolled his eyes as the lecturer started speaking about the secondary endocrine function of the gonads. “But I wanted you to have this.” Sherlock pushed a box over to John.

John glanced down at the blue and white box. Across the top was the name of the manufacture and the make and model of the phone. It was a top of the line, latest mobile made. It was a flip phone with a camera and texting ability. John’s eyes bulged.

“Sherlock, I can’t accept this!” John said out loud.

“Mister Watson . . .” The lecturer called out John’s name. “Is there something you would like to share?”

“No, but there is something I would like to state.” Sherlock interrupted the man. “You’re an idiot.”

“What?!” The professor sputtered.

“You have missed two important secondary endocrine organs and you have confused the function of the pineal with the pituitary.”

The man huffed and sputtered. He slapped his book down on the podium hard it sounded like a gunshot going off.

“Well, young man, if you think you are such an expert, maybe you should teach the class.” The man suggested fulling expecting Sherlock to back down.

Sherlock remained in his seat for two seconds before he leaped up. John moaned and hid his face in his hands as Sherlock walked down the steps to the podium and stared the lecturer in the face. Then he turned to the class and said.

“Shall we begin? The endocrine system is the group of glands that secrete three different types of biochemical compounds collectively known as hormones into the blood stream.”

Sherlock proceeded to deliver the best lecture John had heard in a long time. By the end of the hour, John as well as the rest of the class had a clear and precise understanding of the major endocrine glands and functions. Sherlock received an ovation and the lecturer left in a huff.

As the class filed out, John was slow to leave. Waiting till everyone else had left before he approached Sherlock.

“I didn’t know you knew that much anatomy. Have you ever thought about medicine?”

“Not interesting enough.” Sherlock said as he grabbed his coat. He spun it around to slip his arms through the sleeves and started to walk out of the lecture hall.

“What about teaching? You would be a great teacher.” John said following the man.

“I abhor teaching. Too tedious.” Sherlock pulled out a pack of cigarettes and tapped one out into his fingers.

John reached for it and pulled it away before Sherlock could slip it between his lips.

“And I abhor smoking.” John slipped the cigarette back into the pack. “And here, I can’t accept this either.” John held out the box with the new mobile.

“I broke your old phone. I owe you a new one.” Sherlock said unconcerned.

“No, Sherlock. This is too expensive.”

“So your objection is the cost and not the fact that I am giving it to you.” Sherlock continued to walk and John fell into step with him.

“Yes . . . no, I mean you don’t have to get me a phone. I’ll get one myself.”

“It’s been four days since I broke your phone. You haven’t gotten a new one yet . . .”

“Well, I can’t exactly afford one yet. I need to save up my money then I can . . .” John interrupted Sherlock.

“Here is a new phone. I don’t know why it should matter how much it costs as long as it works and you can use it.”

John sighed and looked down at the box in his hand.

“It’s ten times better than the one you broke. You don’t have to be so . . . I don’t know . . . generous?”

“John, I’m never generous. I want to call you. You don’t have a phone because I broke the last one. It only is logical I replace it with another. If you don’t like the added features on this phone then simple don’t use them.” Sherlock said as he kept walking across the campus. “Except the texting feature. I like texting.”

“Oh, so for you I should learn how to text?” John asked in a teasing tone.

“Absolutely.”

John walked side by side with Sherlock as they walked across the street to a café.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” John asked.

“You can ask anything you want. I will decide whether or not, I will answer it.” Sherlock said as he sat down and took out his mobile. His fingers quickly texting as he read several messages.

“Well, I was just wondering, and don’t take offence . . .”

“The kisses?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Kisses! There was more than one?”

“Yes several and you are very good at kissing. I would of course like to try it when you haven’t been drinking. I think you might be even more adept sober.”

“I . . . I don’t remember.”

“Well, I will repeat. We fit very well together.” Sherlock said as he slipped his mobile back into his pocket.

“Well, that wasn’t my question.” John hesitated looking around them. “No, it was something Dimmock said about your brother. About him being a hypocrite.”

Sherlock glanced around at the other patrons at café. “Have you ever heard of Mycroft Holmes?”

“No.” John answered honestly.

“My brother is a criminal, John. He claims he just a minor player, but he runs London. He is the most dangerous man you’ll ever met.” Sherlock said.

“But, he looked so . . . so . . . boring.” John said.

“It has been a burden. But don’t be deceived. He has been involved in criminal activities for over a decade now. Robbery, extortion, drugs and murder. He’s controls all of it. He is evil.”

“But if he is involved in selling drugs, why would he be upset about you using drugs.”

“He controls drugs, he doesn’t use them. Drug use is too pedestrian for Mycroft. Too beneath him. Also he wants me to join him in his business. Work together and rule England. He can’t afford to have his younger brother vulnerable to manipulation.”

“Rather Machiavellian.” John mused.

“You have no idea. He found me in an incapacitated state once. It was all very dramatic. He said if he ever caught me using again he would ship me off to rehab. Maybe even set up a conservatorship and take away all of my independence.”

“Could he do that? I mean he is a criminal, what judge would allow him to do that to you.”

“John, to rest of the world, Mycroft Holmes looks like a respective business man with a disreputable brother. Very few know the truth. And those who do, fear for their lives.”

“Should I be worried? I mean is he going to come after me?” John asked feeling a little sick.

“You’re clean. You don’t do drugs. There is nothing you need to worry about, John.” Sherlock smirked. “The Metropolitan is opening up their ‘Black Museum’ for a limited time. Let’s go tonight.”

“Oh, thanks but no. I’ve got a date tonight.” John said leaning back in his chair.

“A date?” Sherlock raised his eyebrow as his eyes shifted over John’s features.

“Yeah, you know where two people who like each other go out and have fun.” John teased.

“That’s what I was talking about.” Sherlock replied.

“Oh . . . oh! Sorry. No. I mean, I don’t think it would be the same . . . I mean two blokes who are friends. I’m going out on a date with a girl . . . A woman, I mean.” John stumbled over his words.

Sherlock just stared blankly at him. John waited for two minutes for Sherlock to say something else but the silence just dragged on.

“I told you, I wasn’t gay, Sherlock.”

Sherlock abruptly stood up. The chair scrapping across the pavement. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and turned. Before John could say anything else, Sherlock disappeared into the crowd. His black coat blending into the sea of people.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, been out of town for a while. Hope you enjoy the new chapter.

2017       John was enjoying himself. It had been a long time since he had been out dancing. The music was loud and the dance floor was crowded. It felt great to be dancing, letting the music pound through him. Moving to music and letting his body sway with the beat. The lights were pulsating and John felt light headed. It had been a long time since he had let himself relax. It had been nice to let go and forget for a little while.

Seb was a friend of the bouncers and the bartenders at the club. He got John into the club for free and both of them had been getting free beers all night. Seb had kept bring John drinks, then pulling him back out on to the dance floor. It had been a great night. They had been there for two hours before Seb danced close enough to John to slip his hand around John’s waist. Slowly, he pulled the shorter man closer. John let him. It felt nice to be held again. To feel a strong arm wrapped around his waist and another person move close to him. Two hours and fifteen minutes into the evening, Seb bent down to kiss John for the first time.

John’s eyes were closed as he felt the brush of Seb’s lips across his. John quickly leaned back and opened his eyes. He was slightly drunk but was still in control of himself. He stopped dancing and stepped out of Seb’s grasp.

“John?” Seb said. His voice barely audible over the music.

John gave a sudden jerk to his head and shook it no. He stepped further back and then returned to dancing more conservatively. His eyes open and wary. The relaxed smile gone from his face. Seb watched him for several minutes and when the music changed to a slower song, Seb followed John off the floor.

“John, I’m sorry. I just thought . . .”

“No, no it’s okay. Nothing wrong, I’m just . . .”

“You like guys don’t you?” Seb asked.

John smiled softly. “Yeah . . . I like guys.” John then frowned. “Even had a boyfriend once, but I’m not looking right now.”

“You’ve got’a know you’re dead sexy when you dance like that. I just thought, maybe . . .” Seb said as he stepped closer to John to speak in a lower voice. His grey eyes fixed on John’s.

“I think that has more to do with the amount of beer we’ve drunk and not the dancing.” John laughed weakly. He couldn’t hold Seb’s intense gaze. He glanced away and pretended to be watching the other dancers.

“Please, John. I’m sorry. I just wanted to know what it was like to kiss you. I don’t want to push you but I like being around you. We’re the same.”

John looked up into Seb’s slate grey eyes. They took on a lighter color. Like the sky before a storm hits in the winter. John looked at the strong jawline and the military cut blonde hair. The tan skin tight over the lines of Seb’s face. The thin white line of a healed scar across the left side of his face, from jaw to ear. Seb looked nothing like Sherlock. Seb was physical while Sherlock was intellectual. Seb was everything John missed about the army. The strength and power. He should be everything John would want.

John sighed and closed his eyes, wishing he could push the memory of Sherlock further away. The pain and hollowness he had been feeling since he saw the man just a week before. John leaned back against the wall in the bar. It was cool against his heated skin. His heart was still pounding in his chest from the dancing, but he felt exhausted all at once. Too tired to keep going.

“Okay. Just a kiss. But I’m still not looking.” John said as he opened his eyes.

Seb smiled and leaned forward into John’s space. John caught the smell of sweat and beer but also leather and gun oil. Seb crowded John back into the wall, towering over the shorter man. John’s blonde hair spiky with sweat; Seb brought his hand up and dragged his fingers through it. Seb paused when his lips were mere centimeters from John’s, shifting to drag his nose across John’s cheek. Breathing in the scent from John’s skin. John felt the flicker of a smile come to Seb’s lips before he leaned further and pressed his lips to John’s.

He held them there for a briefest of moments, then John felt the smear of a tongue across the seam of his lips. The gentle push of Seb’s tongue requesting entrance. John relented and opened his mouth. He tasted beer and curry, and something else. Something heady and delicious. John closed his eyes and opened his mouth further allowing Seb full access. John’s hand slipped up and around the bigger man’s shoulders. He could feel the muscles under the cotton shirt and the heat coming of Seb’s body. For the briefest of moments, John compared it to another man’s body. A thinner more refined body than Seb’s. Then John forced the memories away and pushed forward into Seb. Letting new memories erase the old.

~221~

2005       The day after he broke up with Anna, Sherlock reappeared in John’s life. He showed up in John’s class again. Sherlock was standing on the stairs looking up at John who was already sitting in his seat in the lecture hall. The two men just looked at each other, then John moved his books out of the way so Sherlock could sit down next to him. He settled into the seat beside John stretching his long legs out in front of himself and into the aisle. When the anatomy professor entered to give his lecture, Sherlock growled.

“Not again.”

After class, Sherlock and John walked to the house that John shared with three other students. Sherlock plopped himself down on the couch and started skimming through the messages on his phone. Mike Stanford, John’s best friend and fellow medical student, looked up from his chemistry book and blinked at the dark haired man who now stretched out across the couch, oblivious to anyone else in the room.

“John?” Mike stood and went into the kitchen where John was smearing butter across a piece of bread to make a sandwich. “What is he doing here?”

“Who? Sherlock?”

“Yeah, I thought the two of you weren’t speaking to one another.”

Mike made it sound like the two of them were a couple. John frowned. Why did everyone think the two of them were together?

“He sat in on my anatomy class again. Thompson almost had a heart attack when he saw Sherlock there again. I don’t know . . . he just came home with me.” John said as he placed a piece of ham on the buttered bread. “Sherlock, you want a sandwich?”

“What day is it?” Sherlock asked not taking his eyes from his phone.

“Tuesday.” John said rolling his own eyes. He began to wonder if he was the only reasonable person in the house. He grabbed a bottle of beer and twisted the top off. He made it into the ben as he tossed the metal cap at it.

Mike Stanford just watched Sherlock for a few moments till his shrugged his shoulders. If John was okay with the man turning back up in his life, then Mike decided it wasn’t any of his business.

“I’m good for another day.” Sherlock answered. He sat up quickly and slipped the mobile into his pocket, glancing around the room. He quickly took in the haphazard décor and the mismatched furniture. Bachelors.

Mike and John went and joined Sherlock in the sitting room. Mike sat back down in his chair; the chemistry book resting on the arm of the chair as he balanced his notes on the other.

“When was the last time you ate?” John asked as he sat down next to Sherlock on couch.

Sherlock’s eyes were still reading the names of every book he saw stacked on various surfaces. Not all the men living here were medical students. One was studying art history and another was studying political science. Boring.

“Sunday.”

“You, berk, that was three days ago. You need to eat.” John handed the sandwich to the other young man.

“Digestion slows down the brain cells.”

“Digestion gives fuel to the brain cells.” John countered.

Sherlock looked down at the sandwich then sighed dramatically. He pulled it in half and gave the larger piece back to John.

“I saw your answers on your chemistry test. You need more fuel than me.”

John almost laughed then realized what Sherlock had said. “How did you see the test?”

“I wrote the test. Who else would grade it?”

“You wrote that bloody test?” Mike glanced up from his notes. “No wonder it was so fucking hard!”

“Anyone could have passed it if they just applied logic and deductive reasoning.” Sherlock said as he waved his hand.

“Sherlock, its chemistry. There shouldn’t be any deducing.” John said.

“I failed it.” Mike said. “My tutor said I had to make it up with a practicum. I hate practicums.”

Sherlock huffed and sat up. “It wasn’t that difficult of a test. But if you insist I’ll make the next test . . . easier.”

“The next test?” Mike moaned. “Of God, I’ll never be able to pass the class.” He stood up and stormed out of the room.

John tried to cover his laughter as he ate his sandwich. He glanced sideways at Sherlock. The dark haired boy ate the sandwich in three bites. He grabbed John’s beer and took a deep swig. John finished his sandwich and leaned back against the couch. Sherlock had picked up one of John’s roommate’s textbooks and was thumbing through it.

“Is that how you make your money? Writing tests?”

“Sometimes.”

“Does your brother pay for anything?” John asked not knowing if he want to know the answer or not.

“Just school and the flat. I get a meager allowance from him. Not enough for my . . . extras.”

“How do you make the money for that? I mean test writing can’t be that good and I don’t see you tutoring other students.”

“Of, God, no! Never! How boring.” Sherlock leaned back next to John. Their shoulders touching. “There are things I can do . . . willing to do.”

“Things? Are these things, things I should be doing?”

“No.”

John’s mind immediately went wild with speculation. “I shouldn’t but you have no problem doing them yourself? Why?”

“Because Mycroft won’t provide me with enough funds to live on.” Sherlock said as if it was so very obvious.

“You are bloody intelligent. I mean that was the best lecture I’ve ever sat through.” Sherlock hummed at John. “Why do you take drugs?”

Sherlock glanced up at John with a puzzled look on his face. He saw the honesty in John’s deep blue eyes as well as the innocence.

“Cocaine to sharpen my intuitive thinking and heroin to drown out the distractions.” Sherlock answered unconcerned.

“Cocaine, elevating heart and respiration leading to cardiac tamponade and death. Heroin suppresses respiration and smooth muscle function leading to death.” John recited from the textbooks on drug addiction.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I know what I’m doing. I’m not an idiot.”

“From where I’m sitting, it appears you are. I mean really, Sherlock, you are remarkable. Unique. Why do you take the risk?”

“There is no risk for me.” Sherlock sighed exasperated. “Honestly, one would think you dealt with an addict or something.”

John’s mouth curled down in frown as he stared daggers at Sherlock. The dark haired boy suddenly realized he might have said something wrong. His eyes shifted as he studied John’s attitude and position.

“Someone close to you . . . family member . . . two family members.” Sherlock said.

“Alcohol, not drugs. But the outcome will still be the same. Ruined lives. And not just the person who is abusing the substance.”

“I assure you, John. I’m not an addicted just a user.”

“So says the addict.” John grabbed the empty plate and the bottle and marched back into the kitchen.

Sherlock stood and followed him. He watched John as the young man tried to straighten up the messy kitchen for a few minutes. He noticed John was angry. There was a scowl on John’s face. He was wiping the counters down with a dirty tea towel while missing most of the crumbs. John tossed empty plastic bag towards the bin but not really attempting to make it into the container. Sherlock knew John had excellent aim when he tried. It was proof of how upset John was him.

Sherlock was running through his head various options to appease John when he realized the other man was muttering and talking under his breath. Sherlock’s excellent hearing picked up a name and a knot released itself within him. Yes, John was upset but not completely with Sherlock.

“Your paramour has left you and you feel you need take your anger out on me?” Sherlock asked as he leaned against the table.

“My what!?” John turned and looked at him.

“That insipid woman you have been wasting your time with.” Sherlock folded his arms over his chest.

“She wasn’t my . . . whatever you said. Yeah, we broke up. How did you know?” John asked as he turned to face Sherlock. Sherlock simple pouted and raised an eyebrow, questioningly. “Alright, alright, you deduced. I hate when you do that.”

John glanced at the floor as he crossed his arms in a mirrored position to Sherlock. “I didn’t expect it to be the great love of my life but I did think after we . . .”

“You wasted your virginity on a woman whose greatest ambition is to be a ‘Page Three Girl’.”

“Sherlock, she wants to be a broadcaster.” John narrowed his eyes at the dark haired boy.

“Same difference.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “She was vacuous and shallow. Trying to carry on am intelligent conversation with her was a Herculean effort.”

“When did you meet her?” John asked. Sherlock stumbled on an answer. “Oh, my God. You said something to her didn’t you? You told her to dump me?”

“I said nothing like that at all.” Sherlock tried to sound innocent.

“Yes, you did. What did you say?”

Sherlock remained quiet for a few seconds before speaking. “I may have mentioned that you would quickly bore of someone who is lacking in the ability to decline any and all sexual advances.”

John mulled over what Sherlock had just said. “You called her a whore?”

“That may be a graphic base term for what I implied . . .”

“Sherlock, why? How could you tell her that?” John groaned.

Sherlock stared at the young man for moment then a smug smiled came to his lips. “I noticed you didn’t deny the accusation John. Is it because you know I was right?”

John blinked at his friend and then blushed slightly. Sherlock was correct. There were moments when he was dating Anna that he felt she was far more promiscuous than him. There were looks they got when they went into the pubs and several dates were interrupted by phone calls that she didn’t explain thoroughly.

“That’s not the point, Sherlock. You shouldn’t have gotten between us. I would have figured it out eventually. But to have her call me up at one in the morning to dump me, that’s not right.”

“Your anger should be directed at her instead of me, John. I just helped the inevitable along. You should be thanking me.”

“Yeah, like that’s going to happen. What would you like me to do?” John guffawed as he turned back and started to straighten up the counter again.

Sherlock watched him for several seconds running a series of ideas through his head. He had numerous suggestions on how John could thank him. Most of them included the two of them being alone in a bedroom. He was about to make a suggestion when John’s mobile rang. The same mobile Sherlock had given him. John pulled it from his pocket and looked confused at the number.

“Hello?” John answered. “Yeah, I remember . . . Oh that sounds great. Tonight?” John was smiling and Sherlock didn’t like it. “Yeah, I’ll see you there . . . ta.” John disconnected the call and looked up at Sherlock. “I’ve got a date tonight.”

Sherlock’s expression didn’t alter. He simply turned on his heels and walked out of John’s house.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2017 Sherlock receives bad news and 2007 John receives some good news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the wonderful comments and kudos. This is actually quite difficult to write because I have to keep both storylines separate while still referring to each other. Thanks for being supportive through my efforts.

2017\.       Ever since Sherlock had seen John two weeks earlier, he had been fighting the inevitable. Since he was laying on that table in pain and John walked in to treat him, memories had been forcing themselves from the rooms in his Mind Palace. Memories he had pushed away. Hidden in rooms behind locked doors.

Sherlock sat in the chair, with his fingertips steeple under his chin. His eyes focused to the middle distance on nothing at all. Lost in his memories of seven years ago. A small flat above a sandwich shop. The smell of coffee and tea. Blue eyes staring at him with so much love and passion he found it hard to breath.

In Sherlock’s Mind Palace, he stepped into the sitting room of the flat. The worn rugs and the mismatched furniture. He could hear John’s laughter as Sherlock told him of how he eluded his brother yet again. He could see the wrinkles around John’s eyes as the man leaned up to kiss him. The taste of tea and Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits on John’s tongue. The warmth of John’s arms as they encircled the dark haired man while the two of them sat on the couch together.

Sherlock moved slowly through the rooms of his Mind Palace. Rooms he had avoided for years. The memory of John’s first day of surgical rotation. The excitement and anticipation. John so keyed up, he practically ripped Sherlock’s clothes off to celebrate. The feel of John’s hands on his body. The sounds of the two of them together.

Then Sherlock was standing before the door. It looked just like the door to their bedroom in 221B. It was the door in his Mind Palace to all the intimate moments he shared with John. The whispers and promises.

_‘I will always love you, Sherlock.’ ‘I can never leave you.’ ‘You are my life.’_

J _o_ hn’s voice. His promise.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He never said the words to John, but he meant them too. That is why- that is the reason when Mycroft showed the picture to him, Sherlock had to act. He had to protect John. Sherlock made his deal with the devil and he sent his heart away from him. He made the choice, never telling John. If John had known he would have stayed. He would have fought. Sherlock sent him away, never letting John know how much it hurt him.

Sherlock fled from the rooms of his Mind Palace. The rooms held too many emotions. Too many memories. He felt he was going to drown in them. He was struggling with the wave after wave of passion and loneliness. Fulfillment and despair. Love and hate. Sherlock ran. He ran passed doors he never wanted to open again but seeing John broke the locks. The memories came out, pursuing him down the corridors. Flooding into other areas of his palace. Taking hold and becoming more vivid.

_‘You were only a dalliance, John.’ ‘Don’t look at me that way, I’m not a hero.’ ‘Heroes are fools who get themselves shot in war.’ ‘Leave John, I never want to see you again.’_

The ache grew in his chest. It was so much more painful than before because he had prophesized John’s future. John was a hero, the bravest man Sherlock knew. And John had been hurt, not just by Sherlock but by the world. Sherlock had sacrificed so much and it didn’t stop John from being shot. His plans didn’t save John Watson. It would have been better for the man if Sherlock had never met him in that bathroom in the first place. If they had never kissed. If he had never pursued John.

~~

“Sherlock, I need to speak to you.” Mycroft’s voice cut through the walls of his memories and pulled Sherlock from the halls of his palace.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked glancing around to see where Ryan and Jerry were.

“I sent your men on an errand. I need your attention, Sherlock.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. “I’m sure you realize I am recovering from a gunshot wound. I won’t be able to do your legwork this time.”

“This was brought to my attention and I knew you would want to be informed immediately. It is in regards to your doctor.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and instantly he regretted in letting Mycroft know that he still had feelings for John. Sherlock hadn’t said anything, but the emotions were plain to read on his face. A knowing smile came to Mycroft as he handed over a manila envelope to Sherlock. Sherlock took the envelope suspiciously. The last time Mycroft had done this, it had turned Sherlock’s world upside down. He hesitated before he lifted the flap and removed the pages inside.

There were glossy black and white photos, eleven by eight, inside the envelope. It was taken in a club somewhere; Sherlock thought he recognized it. The first photo was of John dancing in a crowd. There was a blonde man dancing nearby. He was taller than John with broad shoulders and a scar on his cheek. The second photo was of the same blonde man dancing with his arm wrapped around John’s waist. John wasn’t returning the embrace but neither was he trying to pull out of it.

Sherlock looked at the third photo and tried to not let his emotions show on his face. The blonde was leaning over John and kissing him. The two were still on the dance floor. The other dancers were ignoring the two men. John’s hands were resting on the blonde’s shoulders.

The forth picture showed John and this blonde walking out of the club together. Sherlock recognized the name on the marquis. John wasn’t smiling but the taller blonde had his arm wrapped around John’s shoulders. The blonde’s attention was on John. He was smiling and his scar was twisting his skin into an awkward expression on the man’s face.

“Who is he?” Sherlock asked.

“What makes you think I know who John Watson is dating?”

“You know everything and you wouldn’t be showing this to me unless there was a very good reason for you do so.”

“Relieved to know you don’t believe I would do so just for the sole purpose of humiliating you.”

“Why would I be humiliated? John and I are no longer . . . involved.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and smirked. “The man’s name is Sebastian Moran. Colonel Sebastian Moran. Dishonorable discharge from her Majesty’s Army. He now works in a pub near the Barbican. And when I say works, it is a front for one of Moriarty’s drug distribution. Moran is in charge of overseeing the operation.”

“John is not involved with drugs. He wouldn’t be.” Sherlock said as he eyes scanned over the shorter blonde again.

John didn’t look good. He had tight lines around his eyes. He was under stress. ‘ _Oh yes, this must have been after I had Ryan call him.’_ Sherlock thought.

“There are two possibilities. First, it was just a coincident that John is now dating one of Moriarty’s men. But . . .”

“But the universe is rarely that lazy.” Sherlock finished his brother’s quote.

“Second, Moran knows exactly who John is to you and will be using the good doctor to try and influence you and therefore me.”

Sherlock’s mind flashed back to another photograph Mycroft had shown him years before. The photo of both he and John walking down the Embankment. The two of them were smiling and laughing at something. Sherlock couldn’t remember. It had been late fall and Sherlock was wearing his large black coat and John had on a wool shooter’s jacket Sherlock had bought him. They were happy and nothing was bothering them. The reason Sherlock had lied to John and told him to leave.

“John will not listen to me if I tried to warn him.” Sherlock said handing the photos back to his brother.

“I believe we may have to intervene for the doctor’s safety again.”

Sherlock looked away. The last time was for John’s safety and it destroyed all of them.

~221~

2006       John was having one last hurrah before he had to go home. It was the end of term and school was going well. It was a shame he couldn’t say that about the rest of his life. He had just broken up with his third girlfriend. He was going to have to move home with his mom and her new husband whom didn’t like John and Sherlock was barely speaking to him.

Sherlock had been absent from John’s life when he started dating the third girlfriend, Jeanette. The break up was Sherlock’s fault again even though he wasn’t around for it. John had just introduced the two and Sherlock looked her over with laser sharp eyes. He opened his mouth to make a pronouncement when John glared at him and told him to shut it. Sherlock returned John’s glance then held out his hand and shook Jeanette’s.

“Nice to meet you.” He said as pleasantly as he could.

But the seed had been planted in John’s mind and by the end of two weeks, he and Jeanette had parted ways after she slapped his face and took her tea kettle back. Mike and John’s other housemate, Eddy had suggested that John just give up the pretense and start shagging Sherlock. To which the future doctor repeated the same old line, ‘ _Not gay.’_ Mike and Eddy laughed.

“Do you honestly think any of us still believe that?” Eddy asked as he started to heat water in a pot on the hob.

“John, face it. You may not think you’re gay, but that doesn’t stop you from lusting after Sherlock.” Mike added.

“I’m not lusting. I don’t want to snog him. And we aren’t shagging. He’s just my friend.” John tried to explain. He had never mentioned that he and Sherlock had already kissed.

“Then why does every girl you date have dark curls and blue eyes?” Mike teased. John thought about it and he did have a type and it ran towards Sherlock.

In the morning he would have to move out of the house because he couldn’t afford to stay there with his housemates going home for the summer term. He hated the idea of spending twelve weeks with his mother and her new husband, but John didn’t have any other options. His sister was fighting with her new girlfriend and John didn’t want to be in the middle of that, and John’s father was dead. He was depressed and frustrated.

So that was how he ended up here. At a gay bar dancing with Joey. John decided to see what it was like on the other side of the street. Joey was the bartender of the ‘Backdoor’. He was in his mid to late forties, with thinning hair and small paunch. As soon as John walked through the door, he felt completely and totally out of place. Joey picked up on it and took John under his wing. A few hours later, John was enjoying himself. He was dancing in the middle of the crowd. The lights were stropping from oranges and yellows to reds and violets. The music was loud and no one seemed too concerned with how the other person was dancing. It was freeing and relaxing. John could just be himself and dance like he wanted too.

Joey brought John another drink and danced up close to the younger man. John gulped the alcohol down, thirsty from the heat of the club. John noticed other men on the dance floor had taken off their shirts and suddenly that felt like a wonderful idea. John pulled his jersey off over his head and tossed it towards the edge of the dance floor. It felt good dancing bare chested in the crowd. He didn’t even flinch when the first hand stroked across his back or when another palmed at his belly. Nor did he mind when a hand gently twisted his chin to the side and lips pressed to his.

~~

Sherlock had gotten a call from Joey to come down to the club. Joey had cryptically told Sherlock he had left something of his behind. Sherlock entered the club around ten thirty. It was a Friday night and the place was crowded. As soon as he stepped into the main room, Sherlock was greeted by offers and requests for drinks and dances. Sherlock ignored the other patrons and scanned the room looking for Joey.

He saw the man dancing in the middle of a crowd. Several of the dancers were shirtless and moving together to brush up against each other. Hands were moving over flesh as the lights changed colors adding to the heathenistic scene.

Then Sherlock recognized the man Joey was dancing nearby. The shorter blonde man, who was presently allowing two other men to caress his naked torso and twist his head to the side for intimate kisses.

Sherlock didn’t hesitate. He rushed out onto the dance floor and wrapped his hand around John’s wrist. He pulled the man out of the grasp of the other two dancers and into his arms. John yelped at the rough handling. He opened his eyes to look up into the face of whoever just grabbed him, to see Sherlock standing over him, glaring at the two men who had just been pawing at John. The two took a step forward to complain when Joey stepped between Sherlock and the other two.

“You don’t want to push it.” Joey said to the other two. “He’s far more dangerous than you want to know.”

The two men glanced at Sherlock and saw the hatred in his silver-blue eyes. They raised their hands and backed away. Sherlock kept John tight to his chest as he turned and left the club. Pulling John out into the street.

“Wait a minute, Sherly.” John’s was slurring his words.

“John what are you doing here?” Sherlock hissed at the young man.

John pulled out of Sherlock’s embrace and wrapped his arms around his naked waist, shivering. “It’s cold. Damn, I think the heater’s broken.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled off his suit jacket, wrapping it over John’s naked shoulders.

“Where is your shirt?”

“I . . . I . . . I had it earlier.” John looked down at his body surprised to himself bare.

“John, why were you letting those men touch you?”

“I lovvve dancing.” John started to spin there on the pavement. He swiveled his hips and started dancing to music no one else heard.

“John, what happened?” Sherlock asked grabbing John’s shoulders trying to get the drunk man’s attention.

Joey came out of the club, glancing up and down the street. He saw Sherlock and John just a block away. Joey walked up carefully on the two, seeing John still dancing while Sherlock was trying to question the man.

“Here, I retrieved this.” Joey handed Sherlock John’s shirt. “He was getting very popular in there.”

“Did you get him drunk?” Sherlock asked glaring at the older man.

“How was I to know he was a light weight? Don’t worry, I kept an eye on him. No one got over enthusiastic.”

“I not a light weight?” John whined.

Sherlock growled and turned back to Joey. “How long has he been here? Did anyone bring him?”

“He came in about two hours ago. As soon as he made the door he was getting drinks. I had to put the word out he was hands off.” Joey said.

John stepped closer dancing next to Sherlock. “I like hands, though.” He grabbed hold of Sherlock’s waist and tried to dance with the angry man.

“It didn’t seem like the warning got around, Joey.”

“Those guys were just giving him what he wanted. No one was hurt. No harm, no foul. There’s no reason you need to bring this up to your brother.”

Sherlock glared at the older man then pulled John closer to him. He wrapped his arm around John’s waist and waved a taxi down. Sherlock gave the driver the address for his flat on Montague Street.

~~

John woke up the next morning with his head hurting and the confusion as to where he was. There was music playing in the other room. It must have been a radio on some classical station. The bed was comfortable and the sheets smelled very familiar. John laid there a moment wondering where he was and more importantly, what had happened to his clothes. He only had his boxers on under the covers. He pulled the sheets back and slowly pulled himself to his feet. The world tipped sideways for a moment and he wondered if he was going to be sick. John collapsed back down onto the mattress and waited for the room to quit spinning.

He opened his eyes and saw his clothes sitting on the chair in the room. Relieved only slightly, John quickly put them on. He felt something was familiar but he just couldn’t put his finger on it. John slowly opened the bedroom door and poked his head around the corner. John realized it wasn’t a radio he heard. Someone was actually playing a violin. John slowly walked down the hall and saw a tall figure in a blue dressing gown; dark curls hunched over a violin.

“I didn’t know you knew how to play.” John said to Sherlock’s back.

The music stopped and the young man quickly spun around to see John dressed and standing there watching him.

“How’s the head?” Sherlock asked.

“Killing me.” John said. Sherlock smiled.

“Good, you deserve that.” Sherlock slipped his violin under his chin and began to assault the poor instrument. Pulling out sounds that would mimic a disemboweled cat.

“Sherlock! For the love of God, stop!” John shouted then regretted. He grabbed either side of his head and closed his eyes. “Just give me some paracetamol and some water, please.”

Sherlock stopped playing his instrument and stared at the young man. He hesitated for moment then set the violin back into its case and went into the kitchen.

“Only if you tell me why you were there.” Sherlock grabbed a bottle of water from his frig and the bottle of aspirin from the counter.

“I wanted to have fun.” John said as he collapsed onto the couch. “How did I get here?”

“I brought you here of course. The Backdoor is not your normal club, John. Were you experimenting?” Sherlock handed the young man the pills and the water. John took them glancing at them instead of looking Sherlock in the face.

“I just wanted to dance.”

“You could have gone to the club on campus, or I’m sure there are several others that you are familiar with that don’t specialize in gay clientele.” Sherlock said studying John’s reactions.

“Yeah, alright. I wanted to see what it was like.” A slight blush came to John’s cheeks.

“What it was like? Dancing in a gay bar or being mauled on the dance floor?”

John’s eyes shot up and stared at Sherlock. “I wasn’t!” The blush deepened to dark red all the way up John’s ears.

“Pretty damn near. Joey called me to come get you.”

John couldn’t hold Sherlock’s gaze and he looked back down at the bottle of water.

“Well, don’t worry . . . you won’t have to rescue me again.” John muttered.

“Why, have you decided to never drink again?”

“I have to move back home with my mother. I’ll be gone for summer term. If I can’t make any money over the summer, I doubt I’ll be back next year.”

Sherlock sat up in his seat and leaned forward. “Why? Do you want to move home?”

“No, I don’t, but I can’t stay here.” John said. “I don’t have a job and can’t afford to live in London on my own.”

“Explain.” Sherlock ordered.

“Mike is moving in with his girlfriend, Sandy. Eddy and George are going home for summer term. I can’t keep the house by myself, so I have to find someplace else to live. I couldn’t find anywhere so I have to go home. I don’t want to. My mum’s new husband and I don’t exactly like each other, but what else can I do?”

“You can move in here.” Sherlock blurted out.

“What!?” John looked stunned.

“Why not? It is completely logical. You can move in here for as long as you like.”

“Sherlock, I know that you have teased me about sleeping together, but I’m not going to move in here as your . . . I don’t know.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, John. Just for the time being. No strings. You can sleep on the couch. It’s just temporary.”

“But I don’t think I can afford the rent.”

“You pay what you can. It’s just twelve weeks.”

John glanced around the flat. It was nicer than the house he had been sharing with Mike, Eddy and George. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t ever slept on a couch before. John had found Sherlock’s couch to be quite comfortable previously. And the two of them got along just fine. In fact, John felt he got along better with Sherlock than anyone else he knew. But it still felt wrong.

“What about your brother? What would he say if he found out you had a flat mate?” John asked.

“He’d probably try to bribe you to spy on me. Take him up on his offer and we will split the money.” Sherlock said unconcerned.

John laughed despite himself. He looked up and Sherlock was smiling at him.

“Okay, but just so we are clear . . . flat mates, nothing more.” John said.

“Nothing more, as long as you stay away from the ‘Backdoor’.”

John leaned back against the leather couch. Maybe things were going to be looking up for him.

“I’ll get a job and pay my half.” John said smiling.

“I’ve already told you it is not necessary, John. Pay what you can and then keep the place clean to make up for the rest.”

Sherlock had picked up his bow again and was examining the strings. He grabbed his resin and was slowly applying it. He was standing with his back to John. John glanced around the flat. Sherlock was a slob about keeping the place tidy. Picking up after him couldn’t be worse than cleaning up after Eddy and George. John was beginning to believe this might be the best situation he ever fell into.

“You got any food in the place?” John asked.

Sherlock waved his hand towards the kitchen. “I don’t know. Mycroft sends food over by one of his pet monkeys.”

John got up and went into the kitchen. The refrigerator had the ingredients for a nice breakfast. John dropped a few bangers into a skillet while he started the kettle for tea. He had a nice little fry-up started when he heard Sherlock return to playing his violin. John cooked the eggs as he listened to the music. Everything seemed to settling in quickly to a comfortable arrangement.

John filled to mugs with tea and bought them out with one plate of food into the sitting room. Setting it down as he walked up to Sherlock and without thinking about it, lightly kissed the other young man’s cheek.

Stunned, both men looked at each other. It had been completely unconscious response by John. He didn’t know why he had done it, but it felt so natural.

“Ah . . . breakfast . . . eat.” John quickly returned to the kitchen to get his plate.

Sherlock stood in the middle of his flat watching as John retreated into the other room. He wondered if he had made a terrible mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid the timeline is a little confusing. (I'm completely lost sometimes). The first half of the chapters should be 2017 and the second half of the chapters runs over five years from 2005 to 2010.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2017 Sherlock spies on John 2005 John moves in with Sherlock.

2017       Sherlock was dressed ratty jeans and filthy hoodie. He hadn’t shaved in two days and small shadow of scruff covered his chin and jaw line. His hair was under a wool cap and difficult to see. He was slouched while leaning against a sign post. With an empty paper cup in his hand he looked for all the world like any other panhandler in London.

He was watching the entrance of St. Bart’s A&E department. He’d been there since sunrise waiting to see John leave work. At six-thirty the young doctor came out of the building, zipping up his jacket. John glanced up and down the street for a minute, ignoring the young dark haired vagrant on the corner. John glanced up at the sky then turned away from Sherlock and started to walk down the street away from him.

Sherlock pushed himself off the sign post and started to follow John. The doctor headed north. He walked through Smithfield Market. The market was beginning to slow down and several of the vendors were already hosing down the pavement in front of their stalls. John walked passed the splashing water and through the wrought iron doors onto Charterhouse Street. There was a small French pastry shop across the street. John crossed the street and walked into the shop.

Sherlock followed him through the market but stayed on the south side of Charterhouse and watched John through the windows of the café. John had walked in and went right up to the counter. He said something to the woman behind the counter then turned around and went to sit down with another man at a small table. The blonde man waiting for John leaned forward and gave John a quick kiss before anyone else in the café noticed.

Sherlock glanced up and down Charterhouse, then crossed the street, avoiding the produce and food trucks leaving Smithfield. He walked passed the window of the café and turned just at the right moment to see the man sitting with John in profile. It was Sebastian Moran. Sherlock continued further down the street then paused in a doorway. He was out of sight from the windows of the pastry shop but he could still see who was entering and leaving the café.

Sherlock waited for half an hour till both Moran and John stepped out together. The two blondes paused on the pavement and turned to speak to one another. They were laughing and John had a smile on his face. Sherlock didn’t want to identify the emotion he was feeling but his skin prickled and he suddenly felt warm.

He wanted to know what they were talking about. He wanted to know what was make John so happy. He remembered when he could make John smile like that. When he made John happy. He watched as Moran bought his hand up and gently cupped John’s face. The taller man leaned down and kissed John’s lips. It was a firm and solid kiss that lasted far too long for Sherlock to believe it was one sided.

Sherlock glanced away. He didn’t want to see any more. Part of him wanted to walk away. Let John make a fool of himself. John had told him that the doctor never wanted to see him again. John had been cruel when he came to see Sherlock when he had been sick. The warm inviting eyes Sherlock remembered had turned cold and unforgiving. Sherlock knew he should walked away. Leave John to own destruction . . . but he couldn’t.

He looked up and he saw Moran walking away. John was not with him. Sherlock looked around but John was missing. A sudden sickening wave over took the man. Sherlock took off to follow Moran. His long legs quickly closed the distance between himself and Moriarty’s man.

Just as he was about to cross St John Street, Sherlock saw someone step out of a doorway. Just in the corner of his eye he caught the movement of the figure. Sherlock reacted immediately. He twisted and spun, his fists came up defensively, ready to block an attack. Sherlock froze.

John stood there staring at the man. His hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. John’s lips red and shiny from the kiss.

“What are you doing here?” John asked. His voice slightly threatening.

“Just walking down the street.” Sherlock said trying to not look guilty as he dropped his fists.

“You were following me.”

“Don’t delude yourself, John. I have an appointment down at Aldersgate.”

“Dressed like that?” John’s glance moved up and down Sherlock’s appearance. “I saw you walk pass the window and look at Seb. Are you checking him out? Seeing if I’m dating someone you approve of?”

“No.”

“No, I didn’t see you walk pass the window or no, you are not checking him out?”

“John, you made it perfectly clear that you don’t need me to take care of you . . .”

“Exactly. I’m don’t need you. So why are you here?”

Sherlock looked up and down the street. He wondered how much he could tell John and how much he should keep to himself.

“How did you meet Moran?” Sherlock asked looking back at John.

“Moran? So you know his last name without me telling you. You have been checking up on me. Why? You think because I foolishly loved you once you get the right to interfere in my life now?”

“You feel you can take care of yourself, John, but you don’t understand how much danger you are in.”

“I’m not some naïve university student who you can manipulate again, Sherlock. I’ve seen more pain and suffering than even you and your brother can cause. I don’t need you to come rescue me, so unless you have a reasonable explanation as to why you are spying on me, walk away. You used to be very good at that.” John glared daggers at Sherlock.

Sherlock took another moment to just stare of John. Remembering every new line and change in the face that still occupied his mind. He believed he could draw the face from memory, he knew it so well.

“You lied for me.” Sherlock said simply.

“I did not.” John snapped. “I’ve never lied for you or to you.”

“You told Lestrade I was sick with the flu. You didn’t tell him I had been shot. You lied.”

John opened his mouth to tell Sherlock he was wrong but then John remembered he had told Greg that Sherlock was sick and that was the reason he was visiting the man. He had lied.

“Who told you? It couldn’t have been Greg. Who? Mycroft?”

“Could we get a cup of coffee?” Sherlock asked.

“I already had one.” John forced himself to try and sound angry still.

“I just would like to talk to you. There are things I feel we should discuss.” Sherlock didn’t want to plead but he didn’t want John to leave either.

John glanced away and watched the traffic drive pass them. He couldn’t hold Sherlock’s gaze any longer. He pressed his lips together and blew out a long breath.

“Not yet, Sherlock. I can’t talk to you now.” John said finally looking back at the taller man.

“John, we need to . . .”

“No . . . when I am ready. When I can look at you and not want to punch you in the face, then we will talk. You will explain.”

Sherlock kept staring at John and the shorter man held his gaze that time. Sherlock could see the resolution in John’s blue eyes. The soldier’s jaw locked and his expression stoic. Sherlock nodded his head. He hesitated to hold out his hand to John, but pulled it back before John could refuse to touch him.

“Good bye John Watson.” Then Sherlock turned and continued in the direction that Moran had walked.

John felt like he wanted to say more but when he had looked at the defeated expression on Sherlock’s face he couldn’t find the words that just seconds before had been resting on his tongue.

~221~

2005       It started awkwardly with that single kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. Their relationship didn’t exactly move forward as much as sideways. John moved into the flat on Montague Street. The first few days had been clumsy but the two men learned quickly how to move around each other and started living together comfortably. John found Sherlock’s couch to be quite comfortable and Sherlock was good about letting John use his chemistry equipment for studying. John got use to Sherlock’s odd hours and being woken up by the sound of the man playing his violin. He tolerated when Sherlock wouldn’t speak for days on end. Sherlock got use to John’s instance on finding a job to earn enough money to pay for half the rent even though he never insisted on it.

And the kisses continued. A simple one given by one man to the other every night before bed. A simple brush of lips to a check or a tap in the other’s hair. Sometimes Sherlock would give John a kiss before he retired to his bedroom, sometimes John would kiss Sherlock before he crashed on the couch. Occasionally, Sherlock would search John out for the goodnight kiss. Knocking on the bathroom door specifically to receive the kiss. John continued to tell himself it was just a friendly gesture, although he would never have kissed Mike or Eddy. John didn’t want to spend too much time considering the implications of it.

John found work at a coffee shop just off campus. He came home every day smelling of dark roasted coffee beans and cream. John would bring in the day old bake goods from the shop and eat them for dinner. After about five weeks, John came in with the usual paper sack of slightly stale biscuits and muffins, and an apprehensive look on his face. He ducked his face so Sherlock couldn’t see his eyes. John immediately went into the kitchen and made two cups of tea. He placed the baked goods on a plate and brought them out with the mug of tea; setting both the plate and the tea beside Sherlock. The dark haired boy looked at the food then up at John who had taken his normal seat on the couch, ducking his face again.

“Alright, what is it you are afraid to tell me.” Sherlock asked, refusing the tea.

“Why would I be afraid to tell you something?” John tried to look innocent.

“Please John, don’t make me explain the obvious.”

“I saw Joey today.” John began. “He came by the coffee shop. He was surprised I worked there.” John paused expecting Sherlock say something but when the other boy didn’t, John continued. “Well, he told me they are looking for another bartender at the ‘Backdoor’. Joey said the pay is crap but tips are good. I could make twice maybe three times as much there in one night I could make at the coffee shop.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. He had thought he had warned Joey off from John.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I remember you said one of the requirements of me living here was I couldn’t go back to that bar, but honestly Sherlock, why should it matter to you where I work as long as I make enough money to pay my bills. It’s an honest job. And . . .”

“And you will get hit on every night by drunk men who will think you are available.”

“I know that but I think I can handle it.”

“What? Are you suddenly saying you aren’t offended by gay men hitting on you?”

“No, I’m not offended and I am available, so yeah. It’s a good job and I’m starting tomorrow night. Unless I get thrown out of here, then it that case, I start tonight.”

Sherlock glared at John for several seconds. Then stood up and marched out of the flat. John started working at the club that night. He expected to see Sherlock come storming through the doors of the club and demand he quit, but the man never appeared. After his shift was over, he went home and waited for Sherlock to return and demand he leave. After three days of being gone, John considered contacting Sherlock’s brother, but he didn’t know what to say.

 _‘I’m the reason your younger brother is missing. We had a fight and he left.’_ John could just imagine how well that would go over.

How could he explain his relationship to Mycroft when he didn’t understand it himself? It wasn’t like they were ‘together’ but what were they to each other? He enjoyed being around Sherlock and loved to listen to him as he made his deductions about people. John cared about Sherlock. He missed him and was worried about him. He even had started having some very vivid dreams about the two of them being together. If only Sherlock was there to help explain all this to him. Help him understand what they were becoming. John couldn’t go to Mycroft, but he knew he had to do something. John decide to go the police and report Sherlock missing.

He was slipping his coat on and heading out the door when Sherlock crashing into the flat. He was still wearing the same clothes he had left in three days earlier. He looked like he hadn’t slept the entire time he was gone. His cheeks was hollow and his eyes were sunken in with dark smudges under them. Sherlock’s long fingers twitched as he reached for the knob on the door. His fingernails were stained yellow brown. He stumbled as John leapt forward and wrapped his arms around the man. Holding him as they both slipped to the floor.

“Where have you been, Sherlock!?” John tried to not sound like he was crying. His heart beating hard in his chest as an invisible vice tightened around him.

“Enjoying myself.”

John looked carefully into Sherlock’s eyes. They were contracted to pinpoints and his pulse rate was rapid. Sherlock’s head lulled back and the man fell unconscious in John’s arms. John could smell the sour scent on Sherlock’s breath. An indication of drug use; smoking cocaine.

“Sherlock!”

The dark haired man didn’t respond to John’s voice. John struggled but he got Sherlock up and into the bathroom. He filled the bathtub with tepid water and got Sherlock undressed. Sherlock woke up as John lowered him into the water. The dark haired man cursed and lashed out, but John was surprising strong. He was able to keep Sherlock in the tub and soon the addict was calming down.

It took almost a half hour for Sherlock’s pulse rate to return to normal and for his eyes to properly focus. The whole time Sherlock was mumbling. John only caught phrases and names. Jim and Dimmock were two he could understand. John didn’t want to know what had happened. All he cared about was Sherlock and trying to get the man sober again.

John got the young man out of the tub and into his bedroom. John laid him down in his bed. For a brief moment he considered calling Mycroft again, but decided against it. Mycroft might blame John for Sherlock’s condition and the young man didn’t want to meet the criminal under such circumstances. He covered Sherlock’s naked body with the duvet, then John sat up with Sherlock for the rest of the night. Sherlock swung back and forth between moments of lucid conversations to delusional dreams. A one moment he attacked John calling him Dimmock and threatening his life. The next he was wrapping himself around John’s waist sleeping.

John dosed off round four in the morning, falling asleep beside the dark haired man. He’s sleep crowded with dreams of Sherlock call out to him. Begging him to stay. He woke with a start an hour later to see Sherlock sitting up in bed and watching him.

“Sherlock, what is it? What do you need?”

Sherlock kept studying John’s face silently then brought his hand up and brushed it through John’s hair.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asked.

“You passed out. You were high and I was worried you might stop breathing.” John laid still as Sherlock’s fingers played with his hair. “What was it? What did you take?”

“The last thing I remember was Jim was injecting me with something he said I would really enjoy. I think it was a speedball.”

John pushed Sherlock’s hand away as he sat up. “You IDIOT! That can kill you! Why?”

Sherlock shrugged and looked away from John. John twisted and folded his legs under himself, sitting next to Sherlock on the bed.

“Is this because I took the job at the club? I don’t understand why it would matter so much to you, but I’ll quit. Just don’t do something stupid like this again.”

“It wasn’t you tending bar at the club. It’s not even Joey offering you a job after I told him to stay away. It’s what you said.”

John wrinkled his face up trying to remember what he had said that would drive his flat mate to overdose.

“I don’t remember . . . I said I would start working the next night unless you threw me out . . . I said it didn’t matter that I would be hit on by the guys there . . . what did I say?”

“You said you were available for them.” Sherlock still did not look at John.

John blinked his eyes several times. “You don’t want me available.”

“John, you can be so oblivious. Yes, I don’t want other people thinking you are available for them. I want you here, damn it. I find you are the only person who doesn’t bore me.”

“So because I made one innocuous comment, you decide to go out and try and kill yourself?” John was beginning to get angry. He knew he shouldn’t but he couldn’t help himself. He had been scared. Sherlock had terrified him and now he was finding out it was over some stupid misunderstanding.

Sherlock turned and looked at John. A superior expression on his face. “I knew what I was doing. I wouldn’t have suffered long term effects.”

“You bloody idiot! You put me through twelve hours of pure hell wondering if I should call an ambulance or your brother! I should punch you in the face for this! And all because you don’t like being alone!”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like being alone. I prefer my own company to anyone else’s . . . except you. I found I like you being here. I like . . . I want you to stay.”

“On your couch? Or should I expect a dog bed in the kitchen?” John jeered.

“Well, you could sleep here.” Sherlock said glancing away.

“Here? In your bed? With you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and resumed his bored attitude. “You’re being obtuse again, John. Of course with me. In this bed. Here.” He waved his arms over the mattress.

John just stared at the man for moment. Sherlock hesitated before taking quick snatching glimpse at John. By the third glance he noticed a smile. He turned to look John straight in the face to see the deep blue eyes smiling as well as the entirety of John’s face. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Well, it took you long enough.” John said calmly. John felt the flutter of butterflies in his stomach. He couldn’t believe he was excited to hear Sherlock make the suggestion. “I had expected you to hit on me the first night.”

Sherlock caught up quickly to John and forced himself to regain an aloof manner.

“I didn’t wish to hear the ‘Not Gay’ speech again.”

“So you would like us to share a bed . . . is there anything you would like us to do in that bed other than sleep?” John couldn’t believe he was saying this to Sherlock, but he felt his heart race and a warmth begin in him.

Sherlock blinked and for a split second confusion colored his face.

“What?”

“You heard me. You made me an offer once.”

“But you already lost your virginity.” Sherlock said remembering a conversation from a year ago in a bathroom.

“Yes and no.”

“John, you keep telling everyone you are not gay.”

“I’m not gay, but I am attracted to you. I guess I have been for a while. Just you, no other blokes.” John said.

Sherlock twisted in the bed to look John fully in the face. His eyes quickly scanned and deciphered everything about John. The blonde was anxious. He had not been sleeping well lately. He was hungry and tired. But he was also excited. No not just excited but craving . . . yearning. Could Sherlock be what John was wanting?

“So you are willing to alter our living arrangements?” Sherlock asked feeling his heart begin to beat faster.

“Maybe . . . I don’t know. What if I’m shite at this? You’re my best friend Sherlock. I don’t want to ruin that. What if we sleep together and we decide don’t do it for each other?”

“Believe me when I say, John, that once we start, you will find it difficult to not want to be doing it all the time.” Sherlock said smugly.

John laughed. “That sure of yourself.”

Sherlock leaned forward and brushed his lips against John’s. John took in a sudden deep breath, not expecting the contact. Sherlock only hesitated for a moment, then wrapped his hand around the back of John’s neck and held it there. He shifted his body across the bed and pulled John closer to himself. His tongue smeared across John’s lower lip and John’s mouth opened. Now given access, Sherlock took. He kissed John deeply. His hands moved across the blonde’s body, stoking and kneading at him. Sherlock shifted and kissed down John’s jawline and throat. He nipped at the sensitive tissue under John’s jaw and he dragged his nose to outline John’s ear. 

“I have been told that I am very accomplished in . . .”

“Sherlock . . . shut up and kiss me again.” John gasped.

The dark haired boy returned to John’s lips and let John’s tongue move into his mouth. The two men caressed and massaged each other. The tension that had been building and the adrenaline that carried them on for the last few hours burned through their veins like gasoline. They were starving men finally allowed to sit at a banquet.

Sherlock’s hand slipped down into waistband of John’s jeans and his pants. His hand palmed over John’s hard length. John groaned then hastily pulled back. Sherlock removed his hand but kept his grip firmly on John’s waist. Both men were panting and their eyes were dark with want. John ducked his head down and rested it on Sherlock’s chest.

“Alright, alright . . . you don’t need to prove it to me tonight, idiot. I believe you . . . but we need some ground rules.”

“Anything John.” Sherlock’s voice was rough with want.

John looked up at him and couldn’t help himself. He smiled and placed a chaste kiss to the man’s lips. Sherlock could feel the shift within John. He knew that nothing more would happen now, but he also knew this was just the beginning.

“First, you are going to have to let me come to this in my own time. I’m going to need a little time to adjust to the idea of letting you put . . . ah . . .” John actually blushed and Sherlock found it adorable. “You know what I mean. Second, I want both of us to get tested first. I think we should use condoms but it is still a good idea to be sure. And finally, you can’t ever do anything this stupid again. No drugs. No scaring the crap out of me.”

Sherlock waited till John was done then mulled over what John had said. “I can agree to your stipulations with some modifications.”

“Like what?” John asked suspiciously.

“First, you agree not to leave me waiting. That at one point within the next few weeks we become intimate.”

“Agreed.”

“Second, I have no problems what so ever with using condoms expect for oral sex.”

“After we are tested.” John added.

“Agreed. Finally, I promise to not bring my drug use into the flat and I will reframe from excessive use.”

John stared at the young man for several seconds. “No Sherlock, no drugs."

Sherlock thought for a moment then nodded his head.

John leaned forward and lightly kissed Sherlock’s mouth. The dark haired man reached forward and wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders. But before Sherlock could deepen the kiss, John broke it.

“You taste like an ashtray. Now lay down and get some sleep.”

“I don’t want to sleep.” Sherlock tried to reinitiate the kiss but John gently pushed the man back.

“There will be more than enough time for that. I want you to rest. In the morning after you’ve showered and eaten a good breakfast, you can show me how proficient you are at somethings.”

“Will you lay down with me? We should get used to sleeping together.”

John huffed out a little laugh. “Yeah. I would like that.”

John pushed Sherlock to lay down, then he arranged himself beside the lanky man. John closed his eyes and was soon relaxed and on the cusp of sleep.

“John?”

“Hmmm . . .”

“You’re quitting the ‘Backdoor’, correct?” Sherlock asked as he rolled onto his side to look into John’s sleepy face.

“Missed my shift last night. Probably fired.” John mumbled the words but Sherlock understood them and smiled.

~~

In the morning, John woke up to find Sherlock sleeping calmly beside him. It had been a long night, and John was completely exhausted. John went into the kitchen and started the kettle. He missed his shift at the ‘Backdoor’ and he wouldn’t be able to make his shift at the coffee shop that day. John rubbed his face as he fought his tiredness. He made himself a strong cup of coffee and sat down at the table.

He was just staring at the coffee when there was a knock on the front door. John glanced around to make sure everything appeared reasonably normal before he opened the door. He was expecting Sherlock’s brother or Joey. He saw two men. One was a man wearing a rumbled suit with brown hair going grey and the other was a police constable.

“Yes.” John asked trying to sound unafraid.

“Detective Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police. This is PC White. We are here to speak to a Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh, I’m sorry but Sherlock is sleeping now. Is there something I could help you with? I’m his . . . roommate.” John wasn’t sure what he was now.

“Please wake up, Mister Holmes. There is a murder we need to ask him about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I made the shift in John and Sherlock's relationship believable. John is a bit naïve in 2006 and very bitter in 2017.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2017 John falls to desperation while in 2005 Mycroft meets Greg Lestrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kindly being beta'ed by ff_fan. Thank you for all of your support and kind words.

2017       John was slipping off his coat after locking the door to his flat. He was exhausted. A full shift at hospital then the meeting with Sherlock. He had so many emotions running through him, he couldn’t decide which one was the most dominate. He was angry at Sherlock for following him, but he was also pleased. He felt a warm spike of pleasure knowing the man was still thinking about him. Maybe even jealous. Sherlock deserved to suffer for what he did, but still John didn’t want to admit he cared about the tall git.

John sighed and just wanted to take a hot shower and get into his bed. He tossed his coat over the back of a chair and was unbuttoning his shirt when the knocking began. Rapid urgent knocking on his front door.

“John, it’s me. Let me in.” John recognized Seb’s voice through the door.

He walked over and unlocked the dead bolt. As soon as he had the door open, Seb was pushing his way into the flat.

“Hey, what . . .?”

“I saw you talking to the man. The bum. I know who he is.” Seb’s words rushed out of him. “I followed you to make sure you were safe. You’re alright, yeah?”

John’s hand was still on the door knob as Seb stepped closer, checking over John. John rolled his eyes at the taller soldier. Did everyone he meet believe John wasn’t capable of taking care of himself?

“Yeah, I’m fine. Sherlock wouldn’t . . . he wasn’t a threat.” John couldn’t say Sherlock wouldn’t hurt him. He already had and very badly.

“John, he’s involved with drugs and prostitution. He’s a criminal.”

John looked away and closed the door. Seb’s eyes followed John as he walked further into his flat.

“I know he is.” John said calmly. “I know about his brother too.”

“Why were you talking to him? Did he want something from you? Was he trying to get you to give him access to the hospital pharmacy?”

John dropped onto his sofa and closed his eyes. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have with Seb. He didn’t know how he could explain that at one time he was the lover of one of the most notorious criminals in London.

“No, he was just . . . asking directions. I wanted to tell him where to go.”

“And did you?” Seb raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, straight to hell.”

Seb burst out laughing. He crossed the room and sat down next to John, pulling the smaller man close for a kiss. John was overwhelmed. He hadn’t expect the contact. He quickly brought his hands up and tried to push the other soldier off himself, but Seb kept his arms tightly around John’s body. Finally, John grunted and turned his head, breaking the kiss.

“John?” Seb kept hold of John even though the other man was struggling.

“Let go of me!” John demanded.

Seb’s hands dropped down and John leapt off the couch. Seb’s eyes followed the other blonde as John paced.

“I didn’t want that.” John said his eyes focused on the floor. Seb watched as John continued to pace. “I don’t need you to protect me or treat me like some fucking damsel in distress. You should leave.”

“John, I seriously don’t think of you as someone weak. I know what you have been through.” Seb said as he stood up. “Remember, I was there too in Afghanistan.”

John paused and looked over at Seb. “It’s not that.”

“Oh,” Seb nodded his head. “So he was the one.”

“The one what?” John asked.

“The one you ran away from. The one who is to blame for breaking your heart so badly you are too scared to let anyone else in.”

John wanted to deny it but his mouth was too dry to speak. He could feel the sting of tears coming to his eyes. He blinked them away as he held Seb’s gaze.

“I don’t know what you mean.” John’s voice was steady but at odds with the emotions now surging through him.

“It’s obvious John that you’ve been hurt by a previous lover.”

“He didn’t . . . and you can’t imagine how much I hate that bloody word, ‘obvious’.” John looked away. Turning his back on Seb before the first tear ran down his cheek. John quickly wiped it away before Seb could see it.

“John, you must see how much I care about you. How connected I feel towards you. Please, let me in.”

Seb stepped closer but didn’t touch John. The shorter man could feel Seb’s proximity by the warmth covering his back.

“John, I just want to make you happy. I just want to make you forget.”

“Can you? Make me forget?” John asked wondering if that was really what he wanted.

“I want to try.”

John felt the hand rest lightly on his good shoulder. Seb pulled gently to turn John around to face him. The two men looked at each other for a moment then slowly Seb lowered his face to meet John’s. He brushed his lips over John’s mouth, tasting the coffee from the shop. John sighed and opened his mouth. Seb’s tongue pushed forward and caressed John’s. Firmly and direct. No hesitation or remorse.

Seb’s arms came up and wrapped around John’s body, pulling his close. John felt the bulge in front of Seb’s trousers pressed into his hip. The kissing became more urgent and messy. Seb’s fingers reached up and dragged through John’s short hair. The soft blonde strands bristling through Seb’s callous fingers.

John groaned as Seb dipped his head down and started kissing along John’s neck and down under the collar of his shirt. The first few buttons opened up and Seb pulled the cotton back to expose more of John’s collar bone. John arched into the touch. Closing his eyes, he focused his mind on the sensation to his body and not on who was doing it.

Seb growled when he was restricted by John’s shirt from kissing lower. He pulled roughly at the fabric, tearing a button free. It clattered to the floor as John gasped. Seb’s lips closing over one of John’s nipples.

“Come to bed with me.” Seb whispered just before his mouth returned to John’s for another deep kiss.

John couldn’t answer the man. He moaned as his felt hands stroke down his sides and reach for his belt.

“I want to make love to you, John. I want to hold you and watch you come.” _‘_

John was shaking now. His whole body was giving over to the need he hadn’t indulged in since before he was shot. It had been months, maybe years. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had felt like this. Who had made him feel like this before?

Suddenly a memory of Sherlock flashed before John’s eyes. He was naked and laying over John. The sunlight coming through the window was casting lightly through the curls of his hair. Sherlock’s pale skin was flushed with arousal and looked so warm to the touch. John shivered and squeezed his eyes tight. Pushing the memory away. _‘Not now! Not now!’_ he repeated to himself.

He bought his hands up and wrapped them around Seb’s shoulders.

“Down the hall . . . on the left. Hurry.” John pleaded into Seb’s lips. “I want it too.”

~221~

2005       John stared dumbfounded at the inspector. The man’s face was stern but still open and almost friendly. Greg Lestrade held John’s stare waiting for the young man to say something.

“You said Sherlock was asleep. My PC can go wake him.” Greg offered.

“Ahh . . . he is really tired. He was . . . sick last night. Can I have him call you?” John offered.

“No. I will wait for you to wake Mister Holmes or my constable can go and rout sleeping beauty himself.” Greg said calmly.

“He really needs to sleep. He won’t be very coherent if you try to wake him now.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

The flat door was pushed further open and the one person John never wanted to see again stepped into the room.

“I am afraid that you are not qualified to be a judge . . . detective was it?” Mycroft Holmes said. His umbrella grasped in his hand while two very large men stood in the hallway behind him.

“And who are you?” Greg asked.

“I am Sherlock Holmes’ brother. I have been informed that the police would like to question my younger brother and I am here to make sure he receives proper representation.”

“So those are your solicitors standing in the hallway?” Greg teased.

A small smile slipped across Mycroft’s face as he closed his eyes briefly. “No, just my associates. I am a full licensed and recognized member of chambers. I act as my brother’s legal advisor.”

John’s head was swimming as the two men spared. He wished he was asleep with Sherlock in the other room.

The bedroom door banged open and Sherlock stepped out in his dark blue dressing gown. He wore a pair of pajama bottoms and a tatty t-shirt under the elegant silk gown. His bare feet patted across the wood floor and onto the carpet.

“Isn’t it early for the usual police harassment?” Sherlock asked. His eyes were bloodshot and Sherlock’s skin had a sickly pallor. “You heard the good doctor. I was sick. Now leave. All of you.”

“I have some question I would like to ask you first Mister Holmes. Your name has come up in an investigation.”

John could see the muscles twitch at the corner of Sherlock’s eyes. He could tell the young man was excited but why, John wasn’t sure he wanted to know the reason.

“I heard you say murder to John. Who is dead?” Sherlock asked. He came closer. When he paused, John noticed Sherlock wavered slightly. Lestrade noticed it too.

Lestrade held out his warrant card and properly introduced himself. “Detective Greg Lestrade, this is Police Constable White. Are you familiar with a man named James Moriarty?”

Sherlock’s eyes moved quickly between Lestrade and Mycroft. He remained silent for several seconds before he spoke taking in as much detail as he could about the two men. Lestrade remained calm and indifferent while Mycroft rolled his eyes and pouted.

“Is Jim dead?”

“No, but from your question I am to assume you are acquainted with the man.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock said.

“It can be noted that my brother is acquainted with numerous individuals including several members of the extended royal family.” Mycroft said tapping the tip of his umbrella on the carpet.

“And could you tell me where you were last night?”

Sherlock didn’t even hesitate. “I was with Jim. We were at a party somewhere. I don’t remember where. Then I went with him back to his flat and stayed there till only an hour or two ago.”

White wrote down everything Sherlock had said while Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. The younger Holmes refused to look at his brother.

“That’s not true!” John spoke up after watching the men.

Lestrade turned towards John but John’s eyes were fixed on Sherlock. The dark haired boy had a murderous look in his eyes.

“Yes, doctor? You have something to add?”

“I’m not a doctor - yet. Sherlock came home around five yesterday afternoon. He has been here at the flat since then. He hasn’t left and no one has been here to see him.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow and looked back at Sherlock. John continued.

“Sherlock was incapacitated. Like I said, he was sick.”

“Cocaine this time, brother, dear? Or did you try something more habit forming?” Mycroft sneered.

John’s eyes shifted rapidly between Mycroft and the police officer. Sherlock just kept glaring at John.

“Is that true Mister Holmes? Were you here with . . .” Lestrade turned and looked at John.

“John Watson. And yes it is true, but I sincerely doubt Sherlock remembers any of it.” John glanced at Lestrade.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “If I’m not mistaken, Detective Dimmock was murdered after twenty-two hundred last night. That would mean Sherlock was not involved in Dimmock’s untimely death.”

Lestrade looked suspiciously at Mycroft as John spoke up.

“Dimmock! He was a crooked cop.”

“What do you mean he was crooked?” Lestrade asked as his attention returned to John.

“Dimmock came here several months back. He demanded money from Sherlock or he was going to arrest us.” John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was wishing John would shut up.

“Why would he arrest you?” Lestrade asked.

“Sherlock and I were at a party at a house. We didn’t know it but drugs were being sold there.” John started to explain while Mycroft groaned and rolled his eyes. Undaunted, John continued. “We left before the police arrived and started arresting people. Dimmock came here afterwards and threatened to arrest us unless Sherlock paid him. Sherlock gave him two hundred pounds.”

“Is that true?” Lestrade looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock hesitated then nodded his head. “John is in school to become a doctor. If he was arrested on drug charges he would lose his scholarship and his place in the school. I had to pay Dimmock the money to keep him from falsely arresting us.”

Lestrade glanced back and forth between the three men, Sherlock, Mycroft and John. He finally turned to PC White. “Let’s go and arrest Moriarty. He gave us a false alibi.”

White closed the note pad he was writing in and nodded back to the detective.

“Thank you for your time, Mister Holmes.” Lestrade addressed Sherlock. “I may need to interview you officially later on.”

Sherlock waved his hand in a dismissive gesture and went to stand closer to John. Lestrade and White left the flat while Mycroft watched them go. He turned to Sherlock and narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t believe for one second, brother dear, that I forgot about your supposed illness. There will be consequences for your indiscretion.”

Before Sherlock could answer him, Mycroft left and followed Lestrade down the stairs. His long legs allowed him to quickly catch up to the detective.

“Detective Lestrade, a moment please.”

Lestrade turned to look at the elder Holmes brother. He said calmly, “White wait for me at the car, please.” He waited till the PC was outside of hearing distance. “How can I help you, Mister Holmes?”

“I was wondering if you would be interesting in allowing me to show you my appreciation for not dragging my younger brother into Scotland Yard . . .”

“Don’t go any further, Holmes.” Lestrade interrupted. “My department is homicide, but if you proceed I won’t have any problem running you in for bribing a police officer. Just because Dimmock was apparently dirty, don’t think you can paint me or any other officer in my division with that same paint brush. I will find out who killed Dimmock and if you or your brother are involved, I will be more than happy to arrest you too.”

Mycroft blushed slightly and Lestrade thought it was an odd reaction. Mycroft tightened his grip on his umbrella and leaned back, straightening his shoulders.

“Apologies, officer. I was simply offering you a coffee and some conversation. It was not my intention to impugn your reputation.” Mycroft bowed his head and then stood up straight. He locked his eyes on the hallway in front of him, refusing to look at Lestrade as he walked passed the policeman.

Lestrade felt his stomach twist when he realized he had completely misread the situation. That was humbling for the police officer. He prided himself on reading people, but apparently Mycroft Holmes was a new challenge to conquer.

~~

Sherlock’s eyes were focused on the door until Mycroft closed it behind himself as he left. He immediately turned and swooped down to wrap his arms around John’s shoulders.

“Come back to bed.” Sherlock whispered as he lifted John out of seat.

“Wait, what happened to waiting for me to get use to this idea?”

Sherlock twisted and turned the two of them so he could trap John’s body up against the wall.

“You’ve seen me naked, I thought it would only be fair if I got to see you naked.” Sherlock pushed in and kissed John’s mouth.

John moaned as Sherlock’s talented tongue caressed and danced across John’s. John’s body relaxed in Sherlock’s grip as the taller man pressed his interested member into John’s hip. John knew he was as hard as Sherlock and to be honest he wouldn’t need much time to come to terms with the idea of being in a relationship with another man. He brought his hands up and slid them under Sherlock’s t-shirt and smoothed over the ivory skin. He moaned and bucked his hips forward as Sherlock shifted from his mouth to start sucking on John’s neck.

“Oh . . . fuck, Sherlock. Stop please.”

Sherlock’s hand slipped down and palmed at John’s jeans. He pressed the bulge there and whispered into John’s hair.

“Do you really want me to stop, or would you like to feel my hand wrapped around your prick.”

John thought his legs were about to crumple under him. Before he could answer he felt the tug at the button for his jeans and the fly being opened. He closed his eyes and tapped his head against the wall behind him. Sherlock’s fingers teased John’s length covered by the cotton briefs. John bit his cheek to keep the keen from escaping his mouth.

“Well, tell me. Do you want me to touch you?”

“Oh, God YES!” John tipped his head up and shouted to the ceiling.

Sherlock laughed darkly. He continued to kiss John’s neck and jawline as his fingers slipped passed the elastic waistband and into John’s pants. Sherlock’s finger were cool as they skimmed across John’s hot flesh. The contrast made the younger man whimper. John felt light headed and wanted to sit down but Sherlock held him pinned to the wall.

Sherlock’s thumb smeared over the slit of John’s dick. Dragging the precum in a circle around the head of the gland. John tossed his head back hard. Hitting the wall behind him and sending a sharp stabbing pain through John’s skull. For a brief second John’s thoughts cleared and he wanted to tell Sherlock to stop, but then the man’s fingers wrapped tightly around John’s length and pulled it up with a smooth fluid tug. Then another and another.

John thought he was going to melt right there. All that would be left would be a puddle on the living room floor. A glistening reminder of Sherlock’s very talented fingers.

Sherlock rhythmically squeezed his fingers up John’s cock and the blonde keened loudly and then buried his face in Sherlock neck. Sherlock closed his teeth down over John’s neck and John shoved his fist into his mouth to cover his scream. He came in his pants, with Sherlock’s hand smearing the release over John’s pulsating member.

John was having to rely on Sherlock to keep him standing. His own legs were unable to maintain his weight. He was limp and wrung out. He didn’t even care when Sherlock wipe his hand on John’s shirt. The sticky remains of his cum soaking through the cloth and cooling on John’s skin.

“That was . . . amazing.” John finally said as air reached his lungs and he could breathe again.

“Just wait, John. There is so much more I can teach you.” Sherlock said darkly into John’s ear.

John shivered as he tipped his head up to kiss the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

“I’m a very good student.” John said with a lopsided grin on his face.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2017 Things heat up for John and Seb 2005 Sherlock is faced with an ultimatum.

2017       John let Moran take him to the bedroom. They undressed each other slowly and kissed as skin was exposed. John closed his eyes and forced himself to relax. To let the other man lead. It felt like it had been years since anyone had touched John this way. There had are been quick and stolen moments in the army. Hand jobs and the rare oral but to be naked and wrapped in another person’s arms, John didn’t want to remember who had been the last person. He knew it wasn’t Sherlock, but he didn’t want to even compare lovers. He just wanted to let go and forget.

Moran was a good lover. He took his time and made sure John was enjoying himself. He waited till John came before he finally sped up his thrusts and poured himself inside John’s body. He used a warm damp flannel to clean the doctor, before he laid down beside him and pulled him close. Moran left light warm kisses down the back of John’s neck as he spooned up behind the smaller man. He waited to feel John slip off to sleep in his arms, but John didn’t.

John laid next to the man listening to the rain hitting the glass pane of the window. His eyes flickered to the skylight over the bed. The sky was a silver blue. It reminded John of someone else.

“I can hear you thinking.” Seb whispered in John’s ear. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” John said, but his body didn’t relax.

“Did I hurt you?” Seb asked concerned. Twisting his body so he look down into John’s face.

“No, it was good.” John pulled out of Seb’s embrace and sat on the edge of the bed. “I just need to go to work tonight. I’m on the late night shift again.”

“Then lay down beside me and fall asleep. I’ll wake you in plenty of time to get to work.”

John glanced over his shoulder at the man laying down in his bed. The dark tan and broad shoulders. The blonde hair that was now spiky with sweat. The smell of sex hanging in the air. It just seemed simpler to lay back down and go to sleep, but something was nagging John. Some thought he couldn’t completely grasp and understand. It just felt wrong.

“I really need to get some things done before I go to sleep.” John turned away.

Seb growled and grabbed John by his good shoulder. He pulled the man backwards and pinned him to the bed with the weight of his body.

“John, you’re thinking about him aren’t you? We just made love and you are thinking about Sherlock Holmes.”

“No.” John snapped trying to push the larger man off him.

“Do you know what that does to a guy’s ego? To just have fucking mind blowing sex only to be forgotten about thirty seconds later.”

John looked up into Moran’s face and could see the anger there. The grey eyes were dark and John could see the rage. He quit struggling and let Moran move his hands over his body.

“I wasn’t thinking about him. Honest. It just seems that we rushed this. I’m sorry.” John lied trying to relieve Moran’s hostility.

The larger man studied John’s face for several seconds then leaned forward and kissed the man underneath him. John eagerly returned the kiss. He nipped at Moran’s lips and pulled the man closer to him. Moran moaned and deepened the kiss.

“Stay with me.” Moran whispered.

“For a while then I really do need to get up.” John said.

Moran ignored him and rolled them so that John was resting on top of the ex-soldier. Trapped in Moran’s embrace.

~~

Sherlock was sitting in the leather chair watching the flames flicker in the fireplace. The late spring rain had chilled the room and added to the somber feeling of Mycroft’s private club. Sherlock listened while Mycroft listed the various incursions by Jim Moriarty into the Holmes territory.

“He’s completely shut down the imports for Dartmouth. We are now limited to Dover, South Hampton, and our northern ports. Also our protection racket in Rochester and Maidstone has been taken over by a third party. Most probably backed by him.”

“Why didn’t you just kill him years ago?” Sherlock asked watching the flames dance.

“You know I prefer to let my victims live to deal with the ramifications of their actions.” Mycroft was condescending. “I sincerely thought the six months it took for him to recuperate from our little discussion was sufficient to convince him to stay away from you. But I was wrong about the degree of your addiction.”

Sherlock glance over at his brother’s smirk and wanted to punch it off his face.

“I wasn’t addicted.”

“No one believes that lie except you, Sherlock. Least of all, John Watson or myself. Wasn’t that one of the reasons he chose to leave you.”

“You know perfectly well John didn’t want to leave me. I was forced to send him away.” Sherlock snapped at his brother.

“You keep telling me it was for his own good, but if I remember correctly, just after John left and formally enlisted you had your worse relapse ever. Six months of a drug fueled tour of England. Do you even remember any of it?”

“I remember hating you, Mycroft.” Sherlock said coldly. “I remember wishing you were dead. Why didn’t you kill Moriarty then? When he was an actual threat to us.”

“I, unfortunately, was distracted while I searched for you.” Mycroft snapped back at his brother.

“If I had found him I would have strangled him with my bare hands.”

“Yes, you do tend to like the personal touch. All the more reason you should let me handle these inconveniences.”

There was a knock on the door and both men glanced at it. Sherlock’s hand slipped inside his suit jacket.

“Please brother, I just had the carpets cleaned.” Mycroft turned to the door and called out. “Enter.”

The door opened and a man in livery stepped into the room.

“Sir, Mister Gregory Lestrade wishes to speak to you.”

Mycroft let his mask slip for the briefest of moments. A slight twitch to his eyes and a tightening of the muscles in his throat. Most people would have missed the wave of tension that came over Mycroft for the millisecond, but Sherlock wasn’t most people. A sly smile came to his lips. Mycroft had been enjoying watching Sherlock suffer as he become aware of John Watson’s proximity to him. Now, Sherlock was going to watch Mycroft try and remain indifferent as Greg Lestrade came into the room.

Mycroft stood up from his chair and stiffly walked till he was behind his desk. He absently adjusted some papers on the blotter then glanced up at the footman.

“Yes, please send in the Detective Inspector.” Mycroft said with a controlled voice. The footman turned and closed the door behind him as he left.

“Detective Inspector? You’ve been keeping track of his promotions?” Sherlock mused.

“Of course. I am aware of the comings and goings of all the senior members of Scotland Yard.”

There was a second knock on the door and the again the door was opened by the man dressed in the red and gold coat. He held the door open as Greg Lestrade entered the expensive study.

Greg glanced between the man standing behind the desk and other man sitting in the chair. Mycroft’s head was up and his eyes were fixed on Greg. Sherlock was ignoring the policeman, with his fingers steeple under his chin and his attention on the fire.

“Mister Holmes.” Greg turned and addressed Mycroft.

Mycroft felt a stab with the coolness of the greeting. “Detective Inspector Lestrade. It is nice to see you again.”

“Sorry, I can’t say the same thing. I’m here to ask you some questions about the goings on in Dockland.” Greg didn’t wait to be invited to sit. He sat down in the chair in front of Mycroft’s desk, pulling a note pad from his pocket.

“I was not aware that you was your department?” Mycroft said as he sat down. He carefully folded his hands together and set them on the desk.

“Murder is still my department. There was a shooting down on the docks several weeks ago. Two men were killed that night. Since then there has been two more murders involving men from the same gang.”

“I assure you, I know nothing about shooting in Dockland or any subsequent murders.” Mycroft let his voice remain calm and relaxed.

“Mycroft, cut the crap. I know that Sherlock was there the night the men were killed. I know that the other two men who were shot were the two who fingered Sherlock.” Greg’s eyes shifted back and forth between the two Holmes brothers. “What I don’t know is why John Watson covered for him.”

Sherlock lifted his head and turned to look at Greg.

“John is not involved in this.” Sherlock interrupted Greg.

“Well, I thought I might drag his arse down to the Yard and let him explain himself to me.”

Sherlock leapt out of his chair. His eyes flashing with anger. “Don’t you touch him! He’s not involved!”

Greg stared for several seconds at the dark haired man. Then, slowly, a smile came to the policeman’s face. “I see that you aren’t over him. So did you ask him to alibi you or are the two of you an item again? Was this a favor for old times’ sake or is he protecting his lover?”

“I haven’t seen John is weeks. He was my doctor when I was sick. That is all. Blame the NHS, if you need an explanation.” Sherlock spun away from the man’s stare and returned to staring into the flames.

Greg turned back to Mycroft. “Look, I know that you have tried to keep the streets blood free for a while now. But I have four bodies laying in the morgue. I have a feeling I will soon have more. I do not want a war on my streets. I want it stopped. If that means I have to use things I learned years ago to stop it, I will. Do you understand, Mycroft?”

The man sitting behind the desk narrowed his eyes at the detective.

“It is not in my power to control the actions of others.”

“Bloody hell, it’s not. You can make this go away or you can sit there while I bring it down around your head.” Greg growled.

Mycroft looked down at his hands, then around the room as he tried to control his anger and bitterness towards Greg. He glanced at Sherlock who was staring into the flames but was surely listening to what he was going to say.

“I am unable to prevent other people from breaking the law . . . but I will assure you, I will not instigate or retaliate any injurious actions.”

Sherlock spun and looked at his brother. Greg caught the fury in Sherlock’s expression as the younger man dashed out of the room. Slamming to door as he left.

Mycroft and Greg sat there quietly for almost two whole minutes, before Greg stood.

“I will take you at your word . . . Mister Holmes.” Greg turned to leave.

Mycroft stood as emotion suddenly over took him.

“Greg, please.”

Greg paused for a moment but refused to turn around and look at the man. He pulled his shoulders back and continued to walk out of the room. He left the door open as he left. Leaving Mycroft alone in his expensive suite.

~221~

2005       Sherlock was sitting in Mycroft’s office. He was slouched in the chair while Mycroft berated him about his drug use.

“This is unacceptable. I can not allow you to compromise my position by your weaknesses. There must be consequences for this Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked up at his brother.

“What kind of consequences? What are you planning?”

“I have warned Jim Moriarty what would happened if he kept supplying you with cocaine and heroin. He will now suffer for it and you will return to rehab.”

Sherlock launched himself from the chair. “NO!”

Mycroft ignored his brother’s protestations as he leaned back in his chair. He tapped the end of his long finger against his chin.

“I think the sanatorium in the Hebrides.” Mycroft said wistfully.

“You are not sending me to bloody Scotland! I won’t go!” Sherlock shouted.

“You will either go or finally agree to do what you should have done in the first place.” Mycroft looked up at his brother with a coldness in his eyes that would have frozen the sun.

Sherlock slowly pulled back for the desk he had been leaning over. He could feel the ice slipping around his heart.

“You couldn’t mean . . .”

“I most definitely do mean. You will cease your drug use and you will start to work for me.”

“And if I refuse?” Sherlock leered.

“Then you will be leaving tonight for Scotland and your dear sweet doctor will be out on his arse.”

Sherlock collapsed backwards into the chair. He had just convinced John to start a relationship. He didn’t want to go through the mind numbing routine of rehab and he didn’t want to lose John. As much as he hated the idea of working for Mycroft the idea of giving up everything that was now in his reach was worse.

“What do you want me to do?” Sherlock asked, resigned to his fate.

“First you are to move. I want you at a flat over on Baker Street. The land lady is the wife of a competitor. Eliminate his involvement. Next I will need you to contact your homeless network to supply me with as much information regarding Dimmock’s movements before he was murdered. I do not want that man’s death to come back and haunt us.”

“I don’t want to move.” Sherlock said somberly.

“Don’t worry, you can take your new little toy with you. I’m sure John will appreciate a nicer flat in a better location. Near the tube station for his . . . rudimentary transportation needs.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother.

“What are you going to do to Jim?” Sherlock asked only out of curiosity.

“I believe an hour or two with Jocko will persuade Moriarty from selling anything else to you. After he recovers from his little talk I will suggest he find a new line of work.”

Sherlock knew Jocko was an expert at breaking bones and beating people nearly to death. It would take Jim months to recuperate after such a beating.

“Must you?”

“He gave you a speedball. It could have killed you. If not for John’s quick thinking, you could have suffered long term effects.” Mycroft admonished.

“Fine, after I have completed these tasks will you leave us alone?”

“We are only just starting to take over, Sherlock. There will be so many more things I will need you to do.”

Before Sherlock could reply to his brother, there was a knock on the office door.

“Come in.” Mycroft called out ignoring his brother’s petulance. The door opened and Mycroft’s assistant, Anthea came in.

“Sir, there is a police officer here and he is very insistent on speaking to you.” The woman barely glanced up from her blackberry.

“What does he want?” Mycroft’s brow knitted.

“He won’t say sir, but he has brought two coffees with him.”

“Coffee?”

Mycroft glanced passed the woman to the man standing behind her. He saw the rumbled suit and the brown hair streaked prematurely with grey.

“Please send him in.” Mycroft glanced at his brother. “Sherlock, if you would please excuse us. I believe I need to speak to Detective Sergeant Lestrade alone.”

Sherlock shrugged and stood up. He passed the detective who was being shown into Mycroft’s office. Lestrade didn’t look at Sherlock as he eyes were fixed on Mycroft’s expression. He set the coffee carrier down with two separate paper cups and white paper sack Mycroft recognized from one of the nearby pastry shops.

“So you invited me to coffee but you didn’t follow through. Thought I better move this along.” Lestrade said as he sat down in front of Mycroft’s desk.

“I thought you were offended by my offer.”

“I’m offended by anyone who thinks I’m for sale. I’m not. But I am willing to have coffee with someone who would like to be my friend.” Greg said smoothly.

“Are we friends?” Mycroft asked raising an eyebrow.

“Not yet, but unless we get to know each other there’s no way to know if we are going to be friends or not.”

“Quite true, detective. Please call me Mycroft and may I call you Gregory?” Mycroft smiled.

“I prefer Greg.”

“I prefer Gregory.” Mycroft kept his smile.

“I thought you would.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2017 Sherlock confronts Seb 2006 John confronts Sherlock

2017       Moran walked into the pub near the Barbican Theater. He had a smile on his face because of the fantastic shag he had earlier in the day. He had left John’s flat while the doctor got ready for his shift. The two men had fucked twice during the day, and John gave him a blow job while they had showered. Moran knew John was hesitant about the sex but everything was working to plan. In just a few more days, Moriarty and Moran could spring the trap on Holmes. Then maybe afterwards, he could arrange things differently for him and John.

Moran took off his windcheater and hung it on the peg behind the bar. He pulled himself a pint and leaned heavily against the back wall. The crowd in the pub was growing and soon he would have to actually work. He listened at the some of the patrons cheered at the television screen. A football match was going on but Moran didn’t really care who was playing.

He slowly sipped his beer while he watched the mob. Some of the same familiar faces he recognized. Mostly a young crowd of executive types. Rich boys with more money than brains. They had the cuffs rolled up on their pressed white shirts and their collars undone, but not a one of them had a tan that was earned by hard work outside. Several of them glanced his way and nodded at him with furtive glances at the other customers. They would be coming to the bar later in the evening requesting the special goods of Moran and his barmen. Cocaine.

The bell rang over the door of the bar and Moran’s eyes quickly skipped over to it. He couldn’t help himself but smile when he saw Sherlock Holmes step into the bar. The man was dressed in a long black coat with the collar turned up. His silver blue eyes skimmed over the crowd then settled on Moran, who was standing behind the bar.

Moran finished his drink and set the glass down in the pile that needed to be washed. He turned his attention back to the other patrons purposefully ignored Sherlock. The dark haired man walked slowly through the crowd and straight to Moran.

“What can I get you, mate?” Moran asked pretending to not know who he was.

“Honesty, mate.” Sarcasm dripped off Sherlock’s words.

Moran’s face shifted from the relaxed expression of a bartender to the hardened face of a killer.

“Let me guess, you’re here to warn me off of him.”

Sherlock wasn’t surprised he was so easily recognized. “I’m sure something so . . . pedestrian would be ignored by you. No, on the contrary, I am happy that John found a diversion for a short time.”

The muscle in the corner of his eye twitched slightly. The scar on his face prevented Moran from letting a smug smile come to his lips.

“I’m sure he will be grateful to hear that. I made him very happy today. Three separate times.”

Moran expected to see a reaction of Sherlock’s face but was disappointed when the man kept his expression neutral. Sherlock was well practiced had hiding his emotions.

“I’m here to discuss a business deal and not to be regaled by your . . . sexual prowess.” Sherlock sneered at the blonde. “Your pub is for sale.”

“No, it is not.”

“I say it is and I’m here to buy it.” Sherlock set a thick envelope on the bar before he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. Moran’s eyes passed over the white envelope but he didn’t reach for it. “Here is your asking price.”

“I told you it’s not for sale.”

“I expect you to vacate the premises by the end of the day. You can tell Moriarty anything you want as to why you quit. There should be enough there for you to relocate to somewhere else . . . like New York or Miami.”

“Fuck you.”

“You will find your flat has had a little accident. A fire. Shame. Everything is a loss. No reason for you to go home. Everything you own is gone.”

“You fuck’n bastard!” Moran came over the top of the bar and right at Sherlock.

Sherlock was expecting the attack. He easily backed up and dodged the man. His hands never leaving the coat pockets. Moran took two forward steps towards Sherlock when three men stepped out of the crowd. Guns raised and pointed at Moran’s face. Moran froze as the other bar patrons shouted and started rush out of the building. A woman screamed as the sound of breaking glass and crashing furniture could be heard.

“Please continue your assault.” Sherlock said calmly. “My men would enjoy shooting you.”

Moran remained where he was. He pulled back and glared at Sherlock. “John’s going to hate you more for this.”

“I sincerely doubt that.” Sherlock said indifferently. Sherlock doubted John could hate him more than he already did.

The pub was empty now except for Moran, Sherlock, and Sherlock’s three men. The other bartenders and the customers had all fled. The muscles across Moran’s back and arms flexed. He wanted to reach out and wrap his hands around Sherlock’s neck and squeeze, but he didn’t dare move.

Sherlock nodded his head and one of the men stepped forward and started shooting his gun at the display of bottles behind the bar. The fourteen rounds in the automatic broke bottle after bottle. The alcohol cascaded down and pooled on the floor. The rounds shattered the large ornate mirror hanging on the wall behind bottles.

In the distance the sound of sirens could be heard. The men glanced at Sherlock who simple smiled.

“I don’t need to tell you what to do next. I’m sure you won’t take my advice anyway, but just to let you know . . . John is no longer part of this game. Don’t go looking for him. You won’t find him.”

Sherlock turned and walked towards the back of the pub. The men backed out behind Sherlock. Their guns trained on Moran until they hit the backdoor and ducked out into the alley. Just as the door closed, police piled in through the front door.

The interior of the pub was destroyed. There were broken bottles and smashed glasses. Chairs and tables were over turned and damaged. Only the television set bolted high on the wall was undamaged. The crowds at the football match were cheering. The sound of joy carried through the silence of the wreckage.     

~~

John was walking out of the tube station with the other travelers. He zipped up his jacket as the cold wind started to pick up. John paused and looked up and down the street when felt the push of a gun barrel into his side. Ryan stepped up beside John and grabbed his elbow. Ryan nudge John away from the other commuters and down the block away from the station.

“Com’ along doc. He wants to see you.” Ryan said not looking in John’s direction. Instead his eyes were scanning the crowds to make sure they were not noticed.

“What? Why?” John asked surprised. Sherlock had never threatened him with a gun before.

“Your boyfriend is being run out of town tonight. I was told to pick you up and keep you safe until it is all over.” Ryan said as he pushed John in the opposite direction from St. Bart’s Hospital.

Sudden fear rushed though John’s body. His stomach twisted as adrenaline pumped through his body.

“My boyfriend!? Sherlock is not my boyfriend!” John said adamantly.

“Not him, doc.” Ryan said as he pushed John into the backseat of a waiting car. “The blonde one. The one with a scar.”

John suddenly realized Ryan was talking about Seb.

~221~

2006       Mike Stanford had moved in with his girlfriend, Sandy and George wasn’t going to be able to return to school. That just left Eddy and John to room together for the fall term. John had spent the summer with Sherlock in his flat on Montague Street. Before Eddy and John could find another place to live, Sherlock decided to move to a set of rooms on Baker Street. Sherlock insisted John continue to with him, which left Eddy on his own to find new housemates in September. That was over a year ago.

John had been happy at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was a great landlady. She brought fresh baked biscuits up to him just when he needed the boost. John wasn’t sure how the older woman knew when he had a late night study session but the biscuits always appeared just as he needed them.

The neighborhood was nicer than any other John had ever lived in and Sherlock said John didn’t need to pay rent because Mrs. Hudson was giving such a great rate, he could pay for all of it himself. John didn’t believe him and checked with Mrs. Hudson. She seem terrible confused when he asked about the rent. She explained how Sherlock had done her a tremendous favor and she would forever be in his debt. There was no rent.

John had a great place to live rent free with a boyfriend who was a great lover. He was doing well in school and received an unexpected scholarship from an anonymous benefactor. Finally, John’s life was turned around and everything was positive. John should have been very happy but he wasn’t.

In the back of his mind, John was worried. First of all, Sherlock had dropped out of school. He told John he was working now, but he wouldn’t explain exactly where he was working. Sherlock was not working regular hours, either. Sometimes he would be gone to three or four days at a time, then the next week, he wouldn’t leave the flat at all. Second, John couldn’t understand what favor Sherlock could have done for Mrs. Hudson that would grant them free lodging in a flat that should have been far too expensive for them to live in. Finally, no one in the financial office could explain where the scholarship came from or how John had been selected to receive it.

John climbed the stairs after the first day of classes for the semester wondering if he should have a very intense conversation with Sherlock. He was petrified as to what was going on. He wanted to know where Sherlock went to whenever he left the flat. He also wanted to know why Sherlock had alibied Jim when the police questioned him. John was afraid Sherlock was selling drugs for the man. He needed to know where he stood with Sherlock because things were about to change for them.

He had been to the orientation for the medical students to start picking their clinical rotation. John had information for several different programs but the one for the Royal Army Medical Corp was the one that interested him the most. He had wanted to do his residence in the army after medical school and the idea of doing his clinical rotation there would be perfect.

John opened the door of the flat and stepped in. His head was down as he focused on the information from the army recruiter.

“Sherlock? Are you here? I have something to . . .” John didn’t finish his sentence.

Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders and pushed him into the wall. He was kissing the man deeply. Running his tongue over John’s mouth.

“Where have you been?” Sherlock growled as he moved down John’s neck. Biting into the muscles that connected John’s neck and shoulder.

John felt his knees buckle. He dropped everything in his hands. His backpack slipping off his shoulder and hitting the floor hard.

“Sherlock . . .” John gasped.

John’s hands slipped up under the collar of Sherlock’s dressing grown. He felt the warm naked skin there. John opened his eyes and realized Sherlock was naked under his open robe. His hard cock jutted away from his body towards John. Sherlock’s mouth was all over John. He nipped at John’s jawline and sucked bruises into John’s neck. Sherlock’s hands grabbed the younger man’s wrists and pulled them above John’s head, pinning them there. Then with his free hand he quickly worked on John’s belt and fly.

“Sherlock! Wait . . . the door is still open!”

Sherlock didn’t wait. He plunged his hand into John’s pants and wrapped his talented fingers around John’s length. Tugging and rubbing to bring it to life.

“I’ve missed you.” Sherlock’s voice was a deep rumble.

He leaned forward and ground his hips into John’s body. Sherlock pushed John’s jeans and pants down to his knees. His long fingers alternated between teasing John’s balls and stroking his prick. John bucked forward and into Sherlock’s fist.

“Wait . . . where have you been?” John tried to concentrate as push Sherlock back with his chest.

The older man kept close to John. His lips closing over John’s pulse point. Licking up John’s throat, he kissed John’s open mouth.

“Busy. Come to bed. I want to fuck you.” Sherlock purred into John’s ear.

John groaned. He pulled his wrist free of Sherlock’s hand and wrapped his arms around the other man’s shoulders. He leaned up and kissed Sherlock. Smearing his tongue over Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s hands went to work on John’s clothes. He pulled at the hem of John’s jumper, pulling the striped sweater over John’s head. Sherlock’s fingers opened the buttons on the younger man’s shirt; pulling the cloth apart.

John’s tanned skin felt the touch of Sherlock’s fingertips. Electric and heated. John shivered and moaned. Sherlock grabbed his shoulders and pushed him towards the bedroom. John stumbled but Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s waist and pulled him against Sherlock’s body.

“God, I’ve want you so bad right now.” Sherlock whispered in John’s hair.

John leaned into Sherlock’s body and the older man guided John down the hallway and into the bedroom. John twisted in Sherlock’s embrace and started to push his jeans down as he kicked his trainers off. Sherlock’s warm hands swept over John’s torso. His teeth closed over John’s neck; sucking a bruise into pulse point on John.

John felt light headed as the blood rushed to his groin. He struggled out of his pants as his length swelled. Sherlock pushed him down onto the bed and crawled over John’s body. He kissed and nipped at the young man. Sherlock closed his teeth over the nub of John’s nipple. John arched up into the bite. Panting, he heard himself begging Sherlock to take him.

The two moved together in a familiar dance. Pleasuring each other. The late afternoon sun warmed the room. The golden light reflected off the wooden floors and illuminated Sherlock’s body. The man’s pale skin now glowing in the sunlight with a shine of sweat. John’s hands reached up and cupped Sherlock’s face as he moved slowly pushing into John’s body.

John gasped and closed his eyes as he was breeched. He lifted his legs and hooked his heels together at the small of Sherlock’s back. He relaxed his body more and let his love push further into him.

“John, look at me.” Sherlock whispered.

John opened his eyes to see Sherlock staring at him. The intensity of Sherlock’s gaze burned him. He blushed deeper and looked away. Sherlock’s hand cupped his face and moved his eyes back.

“Look. At. Me.”

“It’s too much.” John murmured.

“What is too much?”

“The way you are looking at me. I feel naked.”

Sherlock smiled and leaned forward to kiss John’s mouth. “You are naked.”

“You’re making my soul naked. I’m completely exposed to you.”

Sherlock pulled back to stare into John’s face. Suddenly, Sherlock was frowning. He buried his face into John’s neck as he sped up his movements. Sherlock’s hand moved between them, reaching for John’s prick. He wrapped his fingers around it and started to stroke John in unison with his thrusts. John twisted his head to the side exposing more of his tan skin to Sherlock to lick and bite at.

John arched his back, shouting Sherlock’s name as his release warmed across their bodies. Sherlock kept pounding into John’s body. Riding the edge of John’s orgasm as he chased his own. John’s arms wrapped around the other man and pulled him tightly to his chest. Even though he was sensitive, he wanted Sherlock to complete in him.

“Let me feel you, Sherlock.” Whispered John into the damp curls tickling his nose.

Sherlock grunted and groaned John’s name as his rhythm faltered. He thrust just a few more times till John felt the pulsing of Sherlock’s member deep inside himself.

Sherlock’s body was wrapped around John’s. He held the man under him even as cock softened and slowly slipped from John’s body. Sherlock refused to move.

“Sherlock, you don’t want to fall asleep with that condom on you.” John teased but the man didn’t shift to remove it.

John could feel Sherlock breathing irregularly and slight tremors in his body. John placed his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face and lifted the man’s head. He saw Sherlock’s red eyes and runny nose that meant the man had been crying.

“Sherlock, what’s is it? What’s wrong?” John asked as he pushed the man off him.

“I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock rolled off the younger man and onto his back. He covered his face with his forearm and hide underneath it.

“Sherlock, you’re scaring me. Why are you crying? Are you hurt? Did something happen?” John rolled up on to his side and looked down at the other man. The sticky semen all but forgotten on his abdomen.

“It’s me who is naked, John. You’ve torn every defense I had down and now you see me for who and what I am.”

John brought his hand up and rested his palm over Sherlock’s heart. “Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be when two people love each other?”

Sherlock pulled his arm away from his face and looked at John. “Do you?”

“Do you have to ask?”

Sherlock’s eyes scanned quickly over John’s face. There was honesty there and integrity.

“I love you, John Watson. Believe me. I love you.”

“And I love you.” John leaned over and gave Sherlock a chaste kiss. “Now that is out of the way, I want the truth. Are you using drugs again?”

Sherlock blinked his eyes several times as confusion blurred his vision.

“Using again. No, why you even think such a thing?”

“Sherlock, you disappear for days. You don’t have a real job and I still don’t understand why Mrs. Hudson gave us this flat to live in. What else am I supposed to think?”

“John, I’m clean. I promise you.”

“Sherlock, where do you go?”

“Work.” Sherlock said as he quickly sat up and turned his back on John.

“What work could you be doing that would take you away for days then not need you back for over a week? If I didn’t know you hated your brother I would have thought you were working for him.”

Sherlock grabbed his robe and pulled it on. He stood and started to pace around the bedroom without looking at John.

“Would working for him be so bad?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes it would. He’s a criminal. You said so yourself. You are too intelligent to fall into that trap, Sherlock.” John sat up too. He felt his world was beginning to spin out of control. He was terrified he was about to lose Sherlock. “You say you love me, then you can be honest with me.”

“Be honest with you? Have you been honest with me?” Sherlock finally turned and looked accusingly at John.

“Me? Of course! I’ve always been honest with you.”

“What about the army?” Sherlock asked.

“The army?” John glance at the open door of the bedroom. He remembered the pamphlet about the clinical rotation in the RAMC. He hadn’t shown it to Sherlock. How the man could had known already that John had spoken to the recruiter? A sickening thought came to him. He turned back and narrowed his eyes on Sherlock. “You’ve been spying on me! Not you. I would have seen you. But someone else has been watching me for you!”

Sherlock was caught off guard. He expected John to deny the accusation, not level his own.

“I need to know you are safe. There is nothing wrong with me keeping tabs on you.”

“There is a whole lot wrong with it! Damn it, Sherlock! I’m an adult. I don’t need to be watched over like I’m a toddler. And as for the army . . . it is a great opportunity for me. They will help pay for the rest of my education.”

“Your education is being paid for!” Sherlock snapped.

“So it is you who is paying the scholarship! I should have known! Where is the money coming from, Sherlock? How are you paying for that and forcing Mrs. Hudson to give us this flat and everything else?! Is it drugs?!” John felt a stabbing pain to his heart. Sherlock had been treating him like a child. Hiding things from him and lying to him about everything. Had he just lied about loving him?

“It isn’t drugs! I’m not working for Mycroft! I am just doing a few . . . jobs for him. And as for Mrs. Hudson . . . she gave us the flat because she is grateful I made her a widow!”

John sat perfectly still as Sherlock glared at him. The final words hung in the air between them. Both men realizing the implications of what had just been said and how the other person would be reacting to them. John wanted to scream or cry or hit the man, but he couldn’t. It was just prove to Sherlock, he was the child that the man was treating him like.

“You made her a widow.” John repeated slowly and softly. He forced himself to sit still. Sherlock looked away and returned to his pacing. “Did you do it yourself or order someone else to kill the man?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Sherlock said.

Overwhelmed with a need to do something - anything, John stood up and stormed into the bathroom. Sherlock heard the water running in the sink then the crash of something falling out of the medicine cabinet. He took two hesitant steps towards the bathroom door when John marched out. In his hand he had his shaving kit. He tossed it on the bed and went to the wardrobe. He pulled his jeans back on without even putting on his pants. He grabbed a jersey and pulled it on over his head. Then John grabbed his clothes out of the cupboard and tossed them on the bed too.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked as he watched John.

“Packing.”

“What? NO!” Sherlock rushed forward to pull the clothes from John’s hands.

“I can’t stay here, Sherlock. I can’t stay here with you.” John shouted. He didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want to prove Sherlock right.

“Why? I told you I don’t work for Mycroft?”

“Sherlock you said you are doing jobs for him, and now, you admitted to killing someone. You took a person’s life.” John reached under the bed and pulled out his suitcase. He opened it and started haphazardly throwing his clothes in it.

“I didn’t kill Monty Hudson.” Sherlock said as he reached to grab John’s arms.

“You said . . .” John turned and glared at Sherlock. Glared at the man who admitted loving him then ten minutes later said he killed a man.

“Mycroft wanted him dead. Monty had been skimming off money from his business with Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson learned about the money when she discovered he was sleeping with the dancers at his club. He assaulted her. Domestic violence. She was distraught. I was ordered to kill him. I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t kill him myself, but I knew I couldn’t leave him alive. He would just hurt her again. So I found another option.”

“What?” John asked in a slightly calmer tone. He was still shaking and terrified he loved a murderer.

“He was wanted in Florida for drug trafficking. I made arrangements that he was returned to Miami and found with evidence that he was responsible for murdering a policeman there. He was executed by the state of Florida.”

“So you didn’t murder anyone?”

“No, John. I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.” Sherlock said sarcastically.

John rushed forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock and kissed him deeply. He felt light-headed as he realized that technically Sherlock wasn’t a murderer.

“Sherlock, I could punch you in the face. Why didn’t you tell me all this when we first moved in? I wouldn’t have been worrying all this time.” John lied. All of this would have made him want to move, but now he was relieved to know his worse fears had not been realized.

“I know you don’t trust Mycroft. You have a good reason not to, but I only do the odd job for him. I am not breaking the law.”

“You used the law to save Mrs. Hudson. I know you’re smart enough to keep Mycroft happy without jeopardizing your own freedom. Just please, don’t lie to me again. Don’t deceive me. Tell me the truth and together we can work this through.”

“And what about you and the army?” Sherlock asked as he raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“It is a viable option since I just lost my scholarship.” John said. “And before you argue the point, no you are not paying for my education. It is my responsibility and I will find a way.”

“But John?”

“No buts, just honesty from now on. From both of us.”

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders as he lifted up on his toes to kiss the man. Sherlock returned the kiss hesitantly. His hands moving to the small of John’s back. He let the smaller man deepen the kiss and take it over. Then he sighed and closed his eyes.

For now he could let the other lies he had told John remain where they were. John’s didn’t need to know the whole truth yet. He just hoped when he finally had to tell John, the blonde would forgive him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear friends in London and England, I would like you to know that you are in our thoughts and prayers.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2017 Moriarty explains his plan to Moran 2006 Lestrade gets picked up off the street.

2017       Moran sat in the chair with his hand clenched into fists. His foot tapped on the floor as he waited. Moving slowly and with precise movements, Jim Moriarty slowly poured a cup of tea. He added his milk and stirred in a single teaspoon of sugar. He purposefully took his time, ignoring the man fuming across from him.

“Boss, you can’t let him get away with this!” Moran growled.

Moriarty’s response to Moran was the high clear sound of his spoon tapping the sides of the teacup as he stirred the liquid. He didn’t look up at his man. He appeared to have his entire attention immersed by the preparation of the perfect cup of tea.

Moran sighed. He knew Moriarty was doing this on purpose. The more he complained the longer it would take for his boss to acknowledge him.

“He has Watson. John isn’t answering his mobile.” Moran finally said forcing himself to sound indifferent.

“Of course he has the good doctor. His attention and focus will be on Johnny Boy and not on what is coming next. The Iceman will lose his right hand man and I will be able to start to dismantle his empire even more.” Jim Moriarty picked up the teacup and blew on the brown liquid before taking a hesitant sip. He hummed in contentment as the tea coated his tongue. “Perfect.”

“Are you talking about you bloody tea or your fucked up plan of revenge?” Moran asked glaring at his boss. Moriarty finally looked Moran in the eye. His dark brown eyes were emotionless and cold as a doll’s.

“Both. I knew you were being spied on by Sherlock. He probably knew that very night you took Watson out dancing and made out with him at the club. You didn’t have to debase yourself and sleep with man.”

Moran felt a twist in his stomach. He hadn’t told Moriarty that he and John had become intimate. The only way the man would have known was if he was spying on them too.

“You wanted Sherlock to take John back?” Moran asked.

“John Watson hates Sherlock Holmes, but oddly enough the emotion is not shared. Sherlock is still madly in love with the fool. He will do anything to keep John safe and protected. He was even willing to rip his heart out to keep the man safe. John Watson is Sherlock Holmes’ ‘Achilles’ Heel’. If I threaten Johnny Boy, I can make Sherlock do whatever I want him to do. Including turning his back on his brother when Mycroft needs him the most.”

Jim took another sip of tea and smiled.

“My plan is working perfectly and I will finally have my revenge.”

“Are you expecting me to do him what he had Jocko do to you?” Moran’s eyes glanced down quickly to the scars on Moriarty’s left hand. Torture wasn’t his favorite thing to do, but if he was required he could be quite inventive in causing pain.

“Oh no. I’m not going to be so literal in revenge. I’m not going to be ‘a tooth for a tooth and eye for an eye’. No, I’m thinking more abstract. Mycroft’s man spent twelve hours torturing me. He beat me and burned me with his cigarettes. Then in front of the Iceman, he used a hammer to brake every bone in the hand. It took five operations to get to where it is today. I should have let them amputate it.” Moriarty looked down at his mangled hand and wrist in disgust. He opened and closed it but the ability to grasp anything had been lost the damaged appendage. He swiped the table with it, hitting the teacup. The china cup and tea were flung across the table and onto the floor where it shattered.

“I didn’t lose my hand and I won’t take his hand away either. I’ll just make sure it is so damaged, that Mycroft won’t be able to use it again.” Moriarty smiled.

Moran felt his stomach twist again. “You won’t hurt John?”

“What is so special about John Watson?” Moriarty rolled his eyes. “He was the start of all this. Sherlock and I had a wonderful relationship. I would give him drugs and he would be my pet. I could do with him what I wanted as long as Mycroft never realized I fucking his little brother. Then John Watson showed up and demanded Sherlock quite taking my candy. Sherlock had the audacity to think he could leave me. Walk away for someone as boring as John Watson! I should make Johnny Boy pay too.”

Moran wondered if he could get away with killing Jim before the man could harm John.

“It would hurt him more if he had to live knowing he was to blame for all of this. You know . . . conscious and everything.” Moran said in hope it would convince Jim to leave John alone.

Moriarty looked carefully at Moran then slowly smiled. “You really shouldn’t think me so gullible, darling. I know you find the little doctor adorable. I’m sure he is a good shag. You know . . . a tight arse that hasn’t been over used. Maybe, I’ll set him up in one of my brothels. He can service my special clients who have specific tastes that include causing pain.”

Moriarty watched as Moran’s face darkened and his teeth began to grind.

“Don’t think I don’t know, Seb. Your little doctor is still mine to do with as I see fit. If you make me happy, then I’ll let you keep him after this is all over and the Holmes are destroyed. You can collar him and keep him chained to the foot of your bed. But if I believe for one moment that you are deceiving me . . . I will let you watch as I carve my initials into his body before I throw him to the wolves.”

Moran took three deep breaths to control his temper.

“I work for you, Jim. I’m yours.” Moran said as calmly as he could. “I promise to do whatever you ask.”

Moriarty smiled again. “Then it is a collar and the chain for the good doctor and you get a pet to fuck anytime you like.”

Moran leaned back in his chair and watched as Moriarty poured a second cup of tea in a new teacup.

“We don’t know where Sherlock took John.” Moran said.

“It doesn’t matter. Johnny Boy is too stupid to remain where it might be safe with Sherlock. He will leave Sherlock and return to his flat. You can pick him up there. Take him home and get him used to being yours. If you like, I have several suggestion on how the break the man in. I even have a few whips and gags if you like. I used them on Sherlock years ago. I think that it would poetic that you use them on Johnny Boy now.”

“No, thanks boss. I’ll get my own.” Moran said as a wave of nausea passed over him.

~221~

2006       It had been a long day at Scotland Yard. There had been a murder of a French tourist in Hyde Park. The investigation into a rape homicide near the Black Friar was being held up by the forensic lab. Then there was the Dimmock investigation. In six months there had been no new information regarding the murder of the police officer. It was a personal affront to the entire office. Scotland Yard didn’t like the idea of letting a cop killer go unpunished, let alone unknown.

Mycroft Holmes had proved to Detective Lestrade he was completely innocent of the man’s death. That had been the encouragement Greg needed to proceed with a relationship with Holmes. He had read the reports that listed Mycroft Holmes as a person of interest in several crimes, but he didn’t see any direct evidence linking the man to any illegal activities. There were whispers and hints but nothing that could actually be followed or even considered plausible testimony.

Greg decided to consider it all sour grapes by Mycroft’s business rivals. He was more successful than they were so they started searching out and making up stories claiming Mycroft was dirty. Simple professional jealousy.

After just a couple dates for coffee then a few dinners, Greg began sleeping with Mycroft. Both men sharing an interest in similar proclivities. After six months, Mycroft was hinting at the idea that the two of them move in together.

That was a complication that Greg didn’t need at this time. He was climbing through the ranks of Scotland Yard and he didn’t need it known that he was living with the likes of someone like Mycroft Holmes. Homosexuality was easily accepted by the rank and file, but the executive staff of Scotland Yard still took a dim view of it. Add on top of that the rumors of Mycroft’s association with criminal elements, regardless what Greg thought of them, and Greg could see his future with the Metropolitan Police drying up and blowing away.

It was a spring afternoon when Greg stepped out onto the pavement in front of the headquarters of Scotland Yard. The afternoon traffic was heavy and the smell of auto exhaust was thick in the air. He pulled on the knot of his tie and started to walk. He was heading for the tube station when he noticed the black limo following him. Greg paused by the kerb as the car pulled up alongside him.

Greg glanced up and down the street to see if he was being overtly observed, then he opened the back door and climbed into the expensive car.

The leather seats were soft as butter as he sat down. His hand slid across the cool upholstery. The air conditioner was blowing cold air throughout the passenger compartment. The man sitting next to Greg had on his dark brown suit with a pale cream colored silk shirt. Greg had an incredible strong desire to drag his fingertips across the smooth fabric. Mycroft’s wine red tie was immaculately knotted and tucked into his waistcoat.

“Being picked up by a possible suspect in criminal activities off the street isn’t going to draw any unwanted attention towards me.” Greg said teasingly.

Mycroft allowed himself a sight curve to his lips as he glanced away from the policeman sitting next to him.

“I was just driving by and thought I would offer a ride to an acquaintance.”

“Acquaintance? Is that all I am now? I thought after last weekend I would at least rate close friend. So how sore are you?”

Greg was rewarded with a slight blush to the other man’s cheeks.

“I might revise my statement by saying . . . dear associate.”

Greg laughed as Mycroft closed the screen between the backseat and the driver. He leaned over and kissed Greg. Savoring the taste of coffee and sweet Danish on the man’s tongue. Mycroft leaned back as Greg smiled.

“Honestly, My’, do you have to pick me up in a limo?”

“Would you prefer I travel around London on a Vespa?” Mycroft returned Greg’s smile.

Greg laughed and leaned back.

“You know, I’m restoring an Armstrong MT500. It doesn’t have its front wheel on it right now, but I could get one of the department bikes and we could take a ride on it.”

Mycroft raised both of his eyes in surprise. Greg ignored his surprised expression and kept talking.

“I have a set of old motor cross leathers you can wear. Although they will probably swamp you. I need to feed you up. I could have cut myself on your hip bones last Saturday.”

“You expect me to ride behind you on a motorcycle?” Mycroft looked affronted.

Greg crawled over the seat and knelt down in front of Mycroft. Greg sat down straddling Mycroft’s hips. His hair scrapping across the roof of the car.

“Well, it’s about time you let someone else take control.”

Greg brought his hand up and gently, barely touching Mycroft’s skin, dragged his fingers down the man’s cheek. He was rewarded with seeing Mycroft’s pupils dilate. Mycroft’s breathing sped up and Greg didn’t even need to check to know that the other man’s heart rate was spiking.

Greg shifted his weight and ground his pelvis into Mycroft’s. “I think we can go out into the country. I’ll find us a nice open field with tall grass. I’ll take you there and lay down. Let you ride my cock as the sun light warms us.”

“Sex outdoors where anyone can see us?” There was an unexpected roughness to Mycroft’s voice.

“Sound’s exciting.” Greg whispered as he leaned forward and kissed Mycroft’s mouth.

The two men kissed deeply. Letting their tongues caress each other’s. A dance they had become familiar with over the last few months. Mycroft’s hands moved to slid up under the detective’s jacket and over the soft cotton of his shirt. He could feel the muscles under the clothing and his mind reminded what that body looked like without the clothing.

Greg moaned and shifted. He slid off the seat and knelt on the floor in front of Mycroft. His hands pushed the man’s knees further apart and he moved up between them. Greg smiled as he reached for Mycroft’s belt and quickly undid the buckle. He was pulling on the button of Mycroft’s trousers when the mobile buzzed in Mycroft’s pocket. Mycroft groaned as he rolled his eyes and reached for the device in his coat pocket.

Undeterred, Greg continued to undo Mycroft trousers. He pulled the zipper down and opened the trousers. Mycroft’s conservative striped cotton boxers were visible. Greg leaned forward and blew a warm breath over them just as Mycroft answered the phone.

“Yesss . . .” Mycroft voice wavered as he felt Greg’s nose nudge at his interested cock. He rocked his hips up and slid lower in the seat to give the other man better access to him. Mycroft hoped whoever was calling him was going to be quick. He had much better things to do than waste time speaking to someone.

“Sir, it’s Jocko.” The man on the other end of the line said. His voice was deep with the sharpness of the east end.

“Yes, have you acquired the project?” Mycroft asked remember he had sent Jocko to find Jim Moriarty and hold him.

It had taken six months but he had the man now. Moriarty had disappeared after he had given Sherlock the speedball. Mycroft had promised himself that he would make sure the irritating drug dealer never contacted Sherlock again. He wasn’t sure what the relationship was between the two men but he was going to make sure it ended and completely.

“Yes, sir. I found him and brought him to the warehouse on Cook’s Street.”

Greg was mouthing at Mycroft’s hardening cock through the cloth of his boxers. Greg’s own hand was moving down and palming himself through his trousers. Mycroft tried to focus on what Jocko was saying but Greg was driving him crazy. Greg had freed Mycroft’s cock from the pants and was now slowly dragging in nose along the underside.

“Start without me. I’ll be there first thing in the morning.” Mycroft said as he disconnected the call. He quickly pressed the intercom between the backseat and the driver. “Take us to my flat, Mathis.”

Mycroft barely got the words out before Greg slid his mouth down over Mycroft’s cock. Mycroft closed his eyes and threw his head back into the seat. He spread his legs further apart as Greg took him deeper into his mouth. Tomorrow he would deal with Jim Moriarty but tonight he was going to enjoy himself with Greg.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2017 Sherlock confronts John about Moran 2010 Sherlock gets some bad news.

2017       John was pacing across Sherlock’s living room. He was locked in the penthouse flat. Ryan had left him after kidnapping him. John was furious. He didn’t understand why he was there, nor did he understand the comment about Seb Moran being his boyfriend. Yes, he had spent the day having sex with the man but that didn’t mean they were more than just ‘fuck buddies’. Seb was a great shag and after so many dry years, John was finally enjoying himself, or so he tried to convince himself.

Ryan had locked the lift so John couldn’t leave. No one else was in the flat and John was alone. John turned when he heard the sound of the lift operating again. The doors opened and Sherlock stood in the car. He stared out at John before he lowered his eyes and averted his glance. He walked forcefully into his living room trying to give the impression he was in control.

“Thank you for waiting, John.”

“I didn’t have much choice.” John snapped back. “And since you’ve arrived, can I leave now?”

Sherlock went to his desk and sat down, facing away from the doctor. He powered up his laptop and opened a file before he turned to face John. His eyes travelled over the doctor. John looked more tired than he did the last time Sherlock had seen him. But John’s eyes were still bright and deep blue. A blue that reminded Sherlock of the ocean. Just as deep and just as mysterious. He noticed the love bite on John’s neck. It was low and mostly covered by the collar, but he still saw the bruised skin. Sherlock also noticed the slight discomfort John was experiencing in walking. Deductions burned rapidly through Sherlock’s mind and he felt physically sick with his conclusions.

“I need to show you something.”

John glared at the man but didn’t response to his comment. Sherlock shrugged and turned back to the computer and the open file.

“I am aware that you have been seeing a man by the name of Sebastian Moran.”

“This is between us. You leave him out of this. He is a good man and doesn’t need to be bothered by either you or your brother.” John took several threatening steps forward towards the dark haired man.

Sherlock ignored the overt threat and clicked on an image. It enlarged and covered the computer screen. John opened his mouth to say something else but paused when he saw the picture. He immediately recognized Seb but he wasn’t sure about the man with him. He thought he should know the man. He thought he looked familiar.

“Sebastian Moran works for Jim Moriarty.” Sherlock plainly stated.

John glanced back and forth between the picture and Sherlock. He recognized the name of Sherlock’s supplier from years before. How many nights had he wished the man dead? How often was he jealous of someone he never met? After all these years, Moriarty was back and connected to another man in John’s life. He gave his head one sideways jerking shake then said.

“No. Moran works in a pub. He doesn’t work for Moriarty. You’re just saying that to drive a wedge between him and me.”

“No, John. I’m not. The pub Moran works in is a distribution point for Moriarty. He sells drugs and prostitutes out of it. As well as buys information there. You meeting Moran was a set up. He was sent to draw you closer to Moriarty.”

John pulled back and quickly ran over that last few weeks he had known Moran.

“No, he brought a kid into A&E. The kid was injured. It was just by accident that we met.”

“It was a drug overdose, correct?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John shook his head.

“Yes, how did you know?”

Sherlock clicked on another key and the picture of the young man came up on the screen.

“Archibald Crilley. Fifteen. He is a street kid. Lived in the allies behind Moriarty’s pub. I spoke to him personally. He told me everything. He agreed to be shot up with heroin. He didn’t know it was a purposeful overdose. Moran is the one who injected him. Moran rushed the boy into the A&E and played hero for you. Let me guess . . . he approached you first for a date.”

“It wasn’t a date . . . I just met up with him at the pub for a drink.” John said in a defeated voice.

Sherlock nodded his head.

“I’m sure he played on your need to be needed.”

“My what?”

“John, you’re a doctor who was also a soldier. You live for excitement and you want to be the hero. You have a need to be needed. An addiction.”

John glared at Sherlock. “I do not.”

“So says the addict.”

Memories of a similar conversation floated back into the room. John turned away and collapsed on the grey coach. Sherlock twisted in his chair so he could look at John better.

“Why are you doing this to me?” John didn’t look up. He buried his face into his hands. “Do you enjoy hurting me?”

Sherlock felt the pain of the accusation in his chest. How could he tell John the truth? How could he tell the blonde that hurting him was the last thing Sherlock would ever want to do?

“You needed to know . . . for your own safety.” The words tasted sour in Sherlock’s mouth. Too many times those words were used to excuse the pain that was being caused.

John laughed bitterly. He looked up at Sherlock. The older man could see the years on John’s face. The time that had aged him more than seven years. John looked back down.

“Moriarty wanted Moran to get close to you and control you somehow.” Sherlock continued as John held his head in hands.

“But why?” John asked.

“I don’t know exactly. Probably to get to me.”

John looked up at Sherlock. “So you are to blame for this again?”

Sherlock blinked at the statement then looked away. He stood up and walked to the window to look out over the city. How much of John’s pain was he responsible for? How much more was he going to have to hurt John?

“I am to presume that you and Moran are . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

“Lovers?” John asked. “We’ve slept together but I wouldn’t say we are lovers.”

Sherlock balled his fist and turned away from John so he couldn’t see the expression on his face. There was a ringing in Sherlock’s ears as his mind filled in the blanks of John’s statement.

Moran kissing John. His hands running over John’s skin. The killer’s tongue tasting John. The sound of John enjoying himself. Moran holding him and pressing into his John.

Sherlock wanted to scream. He wanted to lash out. Use all the cruel things he had learned to do over the last seven years and punish Moran. And horrible as it was, to even punish John for letting this happen. For letting Moran defile him. Not only John’s body but the memories Sherlock had of John.

“I had you brought here for your own protection. Moran will try and contact you.” Sherlock tried to control the emotion in his voice and sound unaffected.

John lifted his head and leaned back onto the couch. He slumped into the pillows as he eyes sought out Sherlock’s.

“You make it sound like you confronted him. Did you?”

Sherlock hesitated before he answered. He turned and looked at John. “Yes.”

“Did you hurt him? Shoot him?”

“If I had shot him, John, I wouldn’t be worried about him contacting you. He would be dead.” Sherlock answered sincerely. It hurt even more to know John seemed to be more concerned with Moran’s safety than his own.

John looked away from Sherlock and stared out the window for a long moment. Sherlock was about to say something, when John stood abruptly and turned to him.

“Alright. If he contacts me, I’ll let you know.” John started to walk towards the lift.

“No, John.” Sherlock reached out to grab John’s arm but halted when John seemed repelled by the man’s hand. Sherlock pulled his hand back. “I’m asking you to remain here until we have the situation under control.”

“You are asking me? And who is we? You and Mycroft? No thanks. I’ll take my chances out there.” John continued to walk to the lift. He pressed the button but it didn’t light up. The lift was locked again. “Sherlock, for your own good, you should let me leave and right now.”

“John, please. He knows we are aware of him. He will no longer try to deceive you. He has no reason to . . .”

“Have you ever thought that maybe . . . just maybe, I can take care of myself? You know I have been for several years now. Seven to be exact.”

“Please, John. Don’t leave.” Sherlock heard himself begging before he realized the words had been spoken.

John stared at Sherlock for several seconds. Then he shook his head.

“No . . . It took too long to wipe you from my life last time. I can’t afford to let you in again.”

“John, it’s for your own . . .”

“Don’t you dare say my own good!” John roared at the man. He glared at Sherlock. “Do you have any idea what I went through when you threw me out? You didn’t give much of a damn for my own good back then. You didn’t seem to care that you were ripping my heart out of me. Did you even miss a night of sleep . . . oh, I forgot. You’re the sociopath who doesn’t sleep. So I guess my departure didn’t even register with you.”

Sherlock held his ground as he stared at John. “You have no idea what I went through with your departure. I told you I loved you. I wasn’t lying to you.”

“You told me you loved me then you told me to leave.”

“There were reasons, John. You didn’t have to run off and join the army. You didn’t have to leave the county.” Sherlock finally said bitterly.

“There were reasons for leaving the country too. To get as far away from you and your fucking brother as I could get.” John pushed the inactive button on the lift again, snarling when it didn’t work. “Now, unlock this lift and let me go!”

Sherlock pulled his mobile from his pocket and typed in a message. The sound of the lift moving started immediately. The doors opened and John stepped into the car.

“And I better not see any one following me!” John barked as the doors began to close.

Sherlock wanted to rush forward and stop the man. He wanted to pulled John into his arms and hold him. Kiss him and never let him leave again. That’s all he wanted to do, but he didn’t move. The game was moving forward and John was too valuable a piece on the board to remove from play just yet.

~221~

2010       Mycroft Holmes sat at his desk looking over the various photos he had been mailed. They were glossy black and white photos of his brother and the man’s boyfriend. Mycroft had not like John Watson when he first met him. The fact that the Iceman had foolishly mistaken the man for Moriarty was partly to blame but it was also the fact that Sherlock was so completely and totally besotted with the man. Sherlock had set John in the center of his life and everything he did was for the purpose of keeping John close. Including taking on work from Mycroft to help pay for John’s education.

‘Sentiment’, Mycroft frowned. It was a waste of energy to show sentiment to anyone, let alone a needy medical student. Now with these photographs, Sherlock was surely going to do something stupid.

There was knock on his office door. “Come in.” Mycroft said as his hand slipped to the grip of the gun secreted in the knee hole of the desk. It was pointed directly at the door.

The door opened and Mycroft’s assistant, Anthea walked in followed by Sherlock. Mycroft removed his hand from the gun discreetly and returned his attention to the file on the desk.

“Sit down, Sherlock. This won’t take long.” Mycroft said.

Anthea was still tapping away on her Blackberry. Without looking at him, Mycroft knew she was speaking to him.

“Sir, you have a ten-thirty meeting with Mister Hodges, the owner of Lancaster Trucking. Also the shipments from Amsterdam and Lisbon have both arrived on time. Finally, you asked me to remind you of your dinner date with Detective Lestarde at twenty-one thirty.”

“Thank you, dear. You may leave now.” Mycroft smiled insincerely at the young woman. She turned to leave when Mycroft spoke up. “Make sure that Mathis verifies both shipments and has a complete checked manifest to me before the end of the day.”

“Yes, sir.” Anthea said just before she closed the door.

Mycroft returned his attention to his desk ignoring Sherlock. The two men sat in silence for several minutes before Sherlock sighed and said.

“You called me here for a reason, Mycroft. Quit wasting both of our time and tell me what it is that you want me to do.”

Mycroft looked up at his brother with a mask of indifference. He waited staring as the two men locked into a silent match for dominance. Finally, Mycroft’s need for expedience forced him to speak first.

“You need to send John Watson away.”

“Not this again.” Sherlock rolled his eyes as he stood up. “John is not going away. He is staying with me. Forever if I’m lucky.”

“No, Sherlock. He needs to leave now. It is for his own good, this time.”

Mycroft held out the photo for Sherlock to see. He watched as the little color that Sherlock had in his face drained away. Sherlock grabbed the photo and looked at it. It was a black and white photo of the two of them, John and himself, walking along Victoria Embankment. It must have been recent because John was wearing the coat Sherlock had given him just last month. The two of them were glancing towards each other, smiling or laughing. It was a charming photo except for the red target that had been drawn over John’s face.

Sherlock could feel the twist in his stomach. He heard a high pitch ringing in his ears as he looked at the photo. He tried to remember the day. It had been a week, may be two, ago. They had just finished lunch and were walking back to the tube station. John refused to use taxies. They were happy and had started to talk about what would happen after John graduated. He was looking at a clinical rotation at St. Bart’s. He had let Sherlock convince him not to go into the army.

Sherlock tried to remember if he saw someone with a camera. He tried to remember if he had the sensation they were being followed . . . watched. Nothing came to him. He never felt afraid that day, but the threat was genuine and close.

“When did you receive this?” Sherlock asked.

“In the morning post. Quaint to think someone actually still mails.” Mycroft said.

“Was there anything else with it? A letter? A threat?”

“I believe the threat is more than obvious, don’t you? Someone is threatening your little friend and a threat against him is a threat against you. And since the photo came to me . . . it is a threat against me. It is obvious that we need to neutralize this threat but until we know who is responsible we must be in a defensive mode. John Watson must leave London.”

Sherlock resumed his seat. His eyes fixed on the photo. “Was there anything else in the letter?”

“Look at the back of the photo.” Mycroft said calmly.

Sherlock turned the eight by eleven sheet of paper over and read the few words written there in primitive block letters.

_“I won’t forget what you took from me.”_

“Who is that directed at . . . you or me?” Sherlock asked looked up at his brother.

“I believe both of us.” Mycroft glanced away from his brother.

“The message implies we are both guilty of harming the sender. How many individuals could that encompass?”

“Real or imagined harm? A few dozen to . . . who knows how many. We must operate on the presumption that whoever this is, they are sincere in their threat. For John’s own good, you must break with him, Sherlock. You must send him away.”

Sherlock looked down at the photo again.

“I can’t, Mycroft. There must be another way.”

Mycroft could hear the fear and confusion in his younger brother’s voice. Suddenly, and for the first time in a long time, Mycroft felt a twinge of emotion. A need to protect his sibling.

“Sherlock . . . if I could find another way . . . if we knew who we were fighting, then I could stop them, but I can’t.”

Sherlock looked up into his brother’s face. Mycroft saw the silver-blue eyes turning red with unshed tears.

“I can’t let him go. I can’t! Don’t ask me!”

Mycroft’s mouth went dry. There was a sharpness in his chest and for a moment he wondered if he was having a heart attack.

“Would it be easier to see him die?”

Sherlock suddenly looked very young as he pouted and the first tear slipped down his face. He shook his head no; his dark curls shifting and moving with the shake. Mycroft knew that Sherlock didn’t trust his own voice now. He continued.

“If you don’t send him away and we can’t identify the threat, there is a very good chance that John will be injured. Would it make you feel better to keep him close with the possibility of his death?”

“You can protect him. You can keep him safe.” Sherlock pleaded.

“Only if he is removed from the chess board. He can leave by two ways. Either you send him away or our enemy kills him.”

Sherlock bowed his head. “You don’t understand, Mycroft. Without John, I don’t . . . I won’t . . . he is the reason I’m clean.”

Mycroft Holmes hated excuses.

“Sherlock, you are clean and sober because you chose to be. Not because of John Watson or the threats I’ve made. Because you chose to be! You’re sobriety does not depend on anyone but you. All the more reason to send John away. He is a crutch to you. He prevents you from seeing who you are and what you can accomplish. Now . . . I have told you the situation. You can make your own informed decision. Either send him away or let him stay and possible be shot. I’ve heard there is an ex-army sniper available for hire. A former colonel believe it or not. Now leave, I am busy.”

Mycroft returned his attention back to the papers on his desk. Sherlock still sat in the chair looking at the hated photo. Mycroft watched him through his peripheral vision. Sherlock looked smaller than when he walked into the room. Vulnerable and afraid. Mycroft didn’t want to identify the emotion he was feeling as he watched his brother.

“Please, Mycroft . . . I’ll do anything you ask if you will just . . .”

Sherlock couldn’t finish the sentence. He looked up to see his brother ignoring him. Mycroft was twisted ninety degrees away from him and reading something. Sherlock slowly stood and laid the photo back down on the desk. He turned and slowly walked to the closed door. With his hand on the doorknob, Sherlock tried one last appeal.

“What would you do if it was a photo of Greg Lestrade?”

Mycroft felt the punch to his gut. He forced himself to not react but he could taste bile in his mouth. He turned slowly to look at his brother.

“I would do the same thing. I would send him away. Sentiment is for the losing side, Sherlock. Remember that.”

Sherlock turned away and opened the door. He walked out closing it behind him. Mycroft tried to read the paper in his hand but he couldn’t. Sherlock’s question kept repeating in his head. Mycroft depressed the intercom button and Anthea answered.

“Yes, sir?”

“Cancel my dinner with Detective Lestrade.” Mycroft said into the intercom.

“Yes, sir. When would you like me to reschedule it?” Anthea asked in her bright attentive voice.

“Don’t. I will not be continuing my association with the detective.”

There was a pause before Anthea answered. “Yes, sir. Very good.”

She disconnected the intercom and left Mycroft in silence. He wondered for a moment then decided, no, it was not good. It would never be good again.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2017 John finds someone waiting for him at his flat, 2010 Sherlock destroys his life.

2017       John walked back across London from Euston Street. He knew he needed to calm down after meeting with Sherlock. He was furious. He wanted to punch the dark haired man in the face. Why did the man constantly think he needed to come to rescue John? John was a soldier. He fought for his nation. He had seen more depravity and death than even the poncey Sherlock Holmes. He could take care of himself. He didn’t need Sherlock. He didn’t need anyone. He would be his own hero.

_“John, you’re a doctor who was also a soldier. You live for excitement and you want to be the hero. You have a need to be needed. An addiction.”_

Sherlock’s words came back to John instantly. They only made him angrier. He growled as he clenched his fists. People swerved to avoid bumping into the man as John marched down the pavements and further away from Sherlock. After all these years, Sherlock still knew exactly how to get under John’s skin.

It took John almost half an hour to negotiate the traffic and the crowds as he walked from Sherlock’s building to his own flat south east of Bart’s. He took the stairs two at a time until he was standing at his own door. He fumbled with the keys, cursing as he tried to find his flat key. Before he could unlock the door, it flew open and Seb Moran was standing in John’s flat.

“What the . . . bloody hell, what are you doing here?!” John groaned as he saw the man standing in the doorway of his own flat.

“John, where have you been?” Seb asked.

John pushed passed him and into his flat.

“Just stop the act. I know who you are and why you are here. SO LEAVE! I’m not part of this game Moriarty has with Sherlock. I don’t want to play. Get out and never show your face around me again!”

John refused to look at the other man. He yanked on his coat and tossed it at the couch once he had it off. He wanted a drink but he didn’t think he had anything harder than beer in the flat.

“John, tell me what he said.” Seb asked.

John spun to glare at the man.

“I see you aren’t giving any denial.”

“I don’t know what he said that I would have to deny. You mentioned a Moriarty but I don’t know who that is.”

John stared at the man for moment.

“Sherlock said it was a set up. You shot that kid up with drugs and brought him into A&E to get to me.” John said as he watched for any reaction on Seb’s face.

“John, you can’t believe him. He is a ‘gob-shite’. He thinks he is still your boyfriend.”

Seb took a step closer to John, while the man seem to be thinking about what Moran had said.

“There is nothing you can say about Sherlock Holmes that I don’t already know.” John said.

Moran stepped even closer. He dared to reach out and touch John’s arm. The smaller man didn’t pull back from the contact and Moran felt relieved. He wanted to wrap his arms around John but he needed John to be the one to make the next move.

“Did he tell you he came and trashed my pub?”

John’s eyebrows knitted together as the corners of his mouth turned down.

“He said he spoke to you, but nothing else. What happened?”

“He came in with three other guy and they shot up the place. Some customers got hurt. It’s a bloody mess.” Seb said.

John dropped his gaze. He felt sick. He believed he was to blame for this. That Sherlock was hurting Seb because of him.

“I’m sorry, Seb. Maybe we shouldn’t see each other anymore. I’m afraid he will only get worse. He must be insane if he thinks he can convince me that you and Moriarty are working together.”

Seb stepped closer. His hand slid up John’s arm and wrapped around the back of John’s neck. He squeezed lightly until John looked up and into his eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere, John. He won’t drive me away. You are too damn important to me.” A small smile came to Seb’s scared face.

John looked up at the man, then mirrored the smile. He took the final step that brought the two of them together. John tipped his head slightly to the side and Seb leaned down to meet his lips. Seb could feel the pressure release in his chest. John still trusted him. He still could keep John with him.

Seb wrapped his other arm around John’s waist as the doctor reached up and hung his arms over Seb’s shoulders. The two men kissed again and Seb could feel John relax in his arms. John pulled back and looked into the slate grey eyes of the former soldier. Seb watched as John’s deep blue eyes softened.

“Holmes is an idiot.” Seb whispered.

“You have no idea.” John gave a weak laugh.

“Why would I ever have anything to do with Jim Moriarty anyway? I’m just a barman, not some criminal.” He leaned forward to kiss John again, but the shorter man pulled back.

“What?” John asked.

Seb looked careful to see John’s expression shift slightly. He was confused and didn’t understand what he had said that would cause John to look so worried.

“I don’t know Jim Moriarty. Why would I? How could your ex-boyfriend think I was working with him?”

John pulled out of Seb’s embrace, and took a step back. Seb watched as John began to harden his expression and move away from him.

“I never said Sherlock was my ex-boyfriend.”

“Yes you did.” Seb’s mind started to race through the few times the two of them had talked about the dark haired man. He couldn’t remember if John had ever said he was more than an acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes. “You said he was an ex-boyfriend after he ran into you on the street in front of the coffee shop.”

John took another step back. “No, I didn’t.” Then John’s expression hardened further and his blue eyes went dead. “Nor did I tell you Moriarty’s first name or that he was a criminal.”

Seb realized he had slipped. “Isn’t it obvious that Moriarty would be a criminal . . . Sherlock knows him.”

“Leave . . .” John’s voice was low.

“John . . .”

“Get out! Get out and leave me alone!” John shouted.

Seb rushed forward to grab John. To pull him into an embrace again and kiss him. Convince him this was better. He would be better for John than anyone else the young doctor had known. He grabbed John by the shoulders and pulled him to the larger man’s chest. Crushing John into himself, Seb smeared his lips across John’s. He tried to push his tongue into John’s mouth, but the smaller man refused him access.

John grunted and brought his hands up. He pushed as hard as he could on Seb’s chest. Separating the two of them as John shouted.

“Don’t you ever touch me again! Get out of my fucking flat!”

Seb hesitated then took one step forward. John was quick and fast. He brought his fist up and punched the man squarely on the chin. Seb’s head snapped back and to the side. He tasted the copper in his mouth as he bit his own cheek. His vision turned red with anger. The sharp pain spurred his reaction before Seb could control his temper. He swung fast, catching John’s cheek with his right fist.

John was knocked backwards and into the wall. He hit it hard and slid partially down it before he caught himself. Slowly, he pushed himself back up, glaring at Moran as he did so.

“John . . . no, God . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . John.” Moran acted horrified by what he had done. He reached out again for the man but John slapped his hands away.

“Don’t you ever come near me again.” John voice dropped to a threatening whisper.

“John, please . . . let me explain.”

“There is nothing to explain. I was set up. Were you supposed to take me to Moriarty or just use me to get to Sherlock?”

“It doesn’t matter the reason why I was sent seduce you . . .”

“So that was the plan from the start. Fuck me to get what you wanted. Well, congratulations. Job well done . . . If I ever see you around me again, I’ll kill you!” John was shaking with anger.

Moran watched him for a few seconds. He knew there was nothing he could say now to convince John that his motives had changed the longer he knew the doctor. He wanted John for his own now. He wanted to keep John away from both Holmes and Moriarty.

Moran took a step back and raised his hands slowly as if to surrender. “John, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t, now get out.”

Moran took another step backwards. “I’ll leave, like you want . . . but John, I’m be back.”

“No!”

“Yes . . . you’ll see. I’m being honest with you. We are good together. We don’t have to be playthings for them. I’ll take care of you. I’ll keep you safe.”

Damn him! That was the last thing John wanted to hear. Someone else believing he needed to taking care of. That he needed to be protected. John lunged at the larger man. Punching Moran as hard as he could in the man’s stomach. Moran doubled over, grunting as John’s fist punched hard into the solar plexus. John bought his knee up and connected with Moran’s chin. The man was pushed backwards on to the floor.

Anger surged to through the wounded soldier. He was there to help John and all the idiot kept doing was trying to provoke him. Moran completely lost control. He came up and swung again. Punching John high on his left cheek bone. The pain rocked through the doctor and knocked him off his feet. John crumbled to the floor.

Moran attacked. He jumped on the downed man and started to pummel John with punches and hits. John balled up and covered his head. Occasionally he was able to punch out and hit Moran but the larger man had the advantage.

“Seb . . . stop!” John cried out angrily.

Moran screamed like a wounded animal and backed further away from John. The smaller man rolled up onto his feet and looked up like a wild creature ready to attack. Moran stepped back further forcing himself to put distance between himself and John.

“John, I’ll leave for now. But I will be back to get you. And I’m going to keep you whether you like it or not. You are mine now!” Moran growled in anger.

Moran backed out of the flat as John stayed crouching on the floor. He waited till the door was closed before he fell to the floor again and curled into a ball.

‘How could he be so stupid?!’ he thought to himself. John had one option and although he was going to hate it, he knew he had to do it.

~221~

2010       Sherlock walked into the flat on Baker Street. John was in the kitchen whistling. Sherlock could smell the risotto John was cooking. The smell of garlic and butter as well as the nutty scent of the pasta. The flat smelled warm and inviting but Sherlock wanted to throw up. He had left Mycroft’s office and walked slowly through the city till he had no other choice but to return to the flat and to John.

Sherlock was standing in the doorway between the sitting room and kitchen, watching as John worked at the hob. He glanced up and smiled at Sherlock. The open and friendly smile that John always had for him.

“Oh, good I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t be home in time for dinner. Can you open the wine?”

Sherlock glanced at the bottle that was on the table. It was an average red wine. Probably the best John could afford to buy on his meager income. In a few months, John would be graduating then be off for his residency. They had made plans. There were milestones they were supposed to share together. But that was before Sherlock saw the photo.

Sherlock glanced at the bottle and set it back down on the table. He turned and walked back into the living room. He removed his black coat and sat down in the chair he claimed as his own. John realized Sherlock had walked out of the room without saying anything.

“Hey, dinner should be ready in less than ten minutes. Are you okay?” John asked still stirring the risotto. He knew he couldn’t leave it or it would burn.

“I need to speak to you, John.” Sherlock said in an authoritative voice.

John glanced up and across the room at him. He hadn’t ever heard Sherlock speak to him like that except for maybe the morning after he got terribly drunk at the gay bar and danced without his shirt on.

“Sherlock, I can’t leave the risotto right now. Can you come in here and talk to me?”

“Bollocks the risotto . . . get in here.” Sherlock growled. Sherlock began hating himself.

A spike of anger surged up John as he pulled the risotto off the hob and set it aside. It would probably be ruined because Sherlock had made some silly deduction that he wanted to share with John.

John marched into the room and saw Sherlock sitting in his chair. His long legs were crossed at the knee and his fingertips were steeple under his chin.

“What is so bloody important?” John asked.

“I want you to decline your residency with the army.” Sherlock said in as neutral voice as he could manage.

“WHAT!?” John shouted confused by Sherlock’s request. “I can’t!”

“Yes you can. Just tell them you can’t go. You refuse to go.”

“Sherlock, we discussed this. It’s not that simple. First off, I need to go. I need this residency for my training as a doctor. Second off, the army will finish paying for my medical school. There are no other residencies available and if there were, they wouldn’t take someone who just dropped out of a perfectly good one because is boyfriend said so.”

“I’m not your boyfriend.” Sherlock sneered at the term. “Why do you see the need to label our relationship with something so . . . ridiculous?”

“Ridiculous?! Sherlock what has happened? Why are you being such a dick?”

Sherlock could see the anger building rapidly in the man. He knew the calmer he acted the angrier John would get.

“Your silly need to prove you are a man.”

“I do not have to prove that I am a man.” John’s voice dropped to a rumble as he clinched his fists.

“Obviously you do . . . you felt that way ever since we entered a physical relationship. This need to prove you are man even though you are being fucked by another man. As if being a homosexual makes you less. Honestly, you are pathetic John.”

John’s face turned red. He took several deep breathes as his lips thinned and the corners of his mouth dipped down.

“I don’t know what has gotten into you, Sherlock, but . . . I’m going to go for a walk now. When I come back I want a full explanation why you are saying these things.”

“You don’t have to leave, John. I can tell you right now.” Sherlock said as he watched John march towards the door.

“Not now, Sherlock. I’m done listening.” John grabbed his coat and slammed the door closed as he left.

The flat was silent except for the sound of John’s feet stomping down the stairs and the opening and closing of the street door. Sherlock sat perfectly still listening. Waiting for John’s return. Hating himself all the more.

~~

John did not return that night. He did late the following afternoon. He stepped into the flat expecting to find Sherlock still sitting in his chair but the flat was empty. The risotto was still in the skillet resting on the counter. Cold and congealed.

John went to their bedroom. The bed had not been slept in but sitting on the night stand next to Sherlock’s side of the bed was a mirror. John had no personal experience but he recognized the signs of drug use. The haze of white powder on the glass and a razor blade. Sherlock had promised him he had stopped using. John had never doubted the man’s honesty. He cursed and turned to go looking for Sherlock.

Before he made it to the door, he heard the street door open and the sound of footsteps shuffling up the stairs. John stood in the sitting room with his arms crossed over his chest. A scowl on his face as Sherlock stepped into the room. The tall man weaved slightly in the open doorway as his eyes finally landed on John.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked. He seemed confused by John’s presence.

“Why Sherlock?”

Sherlock shook his head forcing himself to clear it.

“Why what? Why are you here? Why do I not want you to go to the army? Why are you so fucking boring?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You’re here because no one else wants your sorry arse around. Even though I am beginning to be repulsed, I don’t want to see you killed. And as for why you are so boring . . . I’ll just let you surmise the reasons.”

“Sherlock, I don’t understand . . . We love each other.” John whispered.

“You were only a dalliance, John. I’m done now, through with you. Leave John, I never want to see you again.” Sherlock walked passed John and collapsed on the couch. Within seconds, Sherlock was snoring softly.

John stood completely stunned by the man’s statement. He thought they were in love. He thought that the two of them would always be together. John felt his heart being torn from his chest. He went to their bedroom and looked around. He saw the mirror again sitting there with the tale-tell signs of cocaine. John picked it up and threw it across the room. It shattered into a shower of silver and white shards.

John turned and left the flat again. He was planning on going to Mycroft to tell him Sherlock was using again. But half way there, John stopped. He didn’t want Sherlock taken away from him. If Mycroft knew, he would whisk Sherlock off to rehab and more than likely keep John from seeing him.

John walked through the city till he finally found himself at Mike’s front door. His friend opened up the door and invited him in. John spent the night on the couch, unable to explain why he couldn’t go home to Sherlock.

In the morning he returned to the flat. His suitcase was packed and sitting in the hallway. Sherlock was gone and Mrs. Hudson was crying.

“John . . . what happened between the two of you?” she cried as John wrapped his arms around her to console her.

He couldn’t answer her. He didn’t know himself. John picked up his suitcase and the few meager items he had and left 221 Baker Street. His heart completely shredded and destroyed. He ran the whole events over in his head again. Yes, he knew Sherlock didn’t like the idea of him enlisting but they had agreed it was what was best. And he knew that compared to Sherlock, he seemed dim witted and slow, but so did the whole world.

There was only one answer and it was staring him in the face. The drugs. It could only be the drugs. Sherlock had chosen them over John. John had come second to Sherlock’s addiction.

~~

Sherlock, hidden around the corner from the flat, watched John leave. He watched as John’s shoulders slumped and his steps dragged. John didn’t want to go. Sherlock didn’t want him to go. But he had to. There was no other way to keep John safe. If he had been told the truth, John would have insisted on staying. Putting himself in harm’s way just to stay by Sherlock’s side. This was better. It had to be better to be worth all the pain it was causing.

When John turned the corner and disappeared from sight, Sherlock walked across the street and into 221. He could hear Mrs. Hudson crying behind the closed door. Sherlock walked slowly up the steps to the flat he shared with John. He looked around and still saw traces of the man everywhere. The novel John had been reading was still resting on the arm of John’s chair. The draining rack still had the dishes John had washed several days before. John’s scent was still in the air; mingling with Sherlock’s own. Generic shampoo and lemongrass. Tea and almonds.

It was all too much for the man. He tossed his mobile on the counter and fled. He knew where he had to go. What he was going to do. Within an hour he had his first hit of heroin. He had money and he knew how to make himself forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be afraid to comment. I don't bite. (Unless it is required.)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2017 The final show down between Sherlock and Moran 2010 Greg gets called to a crime scene and finds the last person every wanted to see there.

2017       Three hours after Moran left John’s flat, Sherlock was knocking on the door. Sherlock would have been there sooner, but it had taken John two hours and forty minutes to build up the nerve to call the man. Sherlock rushed over as soon as John called. He came alone, leaving Ryan and Jerry back at his flat.

John opened the door and Sherlock looked at the man’s face. The bruise on John’s cheek was already dark. John’s eye was blackened too. Sherlock took in a quick deep breath, seeing the marred face. He hesitantly reached up but John pulled back before Sherlock could touch him.

“Don’t . . .” John said cautiously. “You should be happy that you were right and I was wrong.”

John stepped back and let Sherlock enter the flat. Sherlock glanced around the small space. John closed the door and crossed the small space to the kitchen. He sat down at the kitchen table. In front of him was an open bottle of scotch and a partially filled glass. He grabbed the glass and took another drink as Sherlock quickly accessed John’s living space.

Sherlock could see that John did not spend much of his salary on extravagances. The flat was bare, with just a few pieces of furniture. The only personal items were a few framed photographs from the army. Nothing from before. There was one low squat bookshelf with medical books on the bottom two rows and detective novels on the top row. The coffee table in front of the brown couch had medical journals on it and a coffee mug. There was an older model television set in the corner. By the dust across the screen, Sherlock doubted John watched it often.

Sherlock stepped into the kitchen and sat down opposite John, carefully looking the man over. Sherlock could see John had been hit twice in the face. Both times on the left side, so a right handed attacker. John’s knuckles were bruised on his left hand. John got several punches in too. There were bruises on John’s wrists and upper arms. He had been grabbed but fought the attacker off. Sherlock also noticed the shake in John’s left hand. A tremor he hadn’t seen before. There was a deadness to John’s eyes and a detached expression.

“I would never be happy to know you were harmed, John. Never.” Sherlock said glancing at the bottle. He wondered how much alcohol John had been drinking. Had John finally succumb to the Watson curse of alcoholism?

“You nailed it. He only fucked me to get to you.” John took another swig and leaned back in his chair.

“Is that what he told you?”

“No.”

Sherlock remained silent. He wanted John to explain what had happened in his own way, even though it was killing him inside to wait. John stared at the man for several seconds before he leaned forward and refilled his glass, taking another sip afterwards.

“Is that really necessary?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, it bloody well is.” John snapped. He glared at Sherlock waiting for another remark, but none came. “He said he was sent to seduce me.”

Sherlock forced himself to not react to the statement. He wanted to scream . . . to lash out, but he couldn’t. Not yet and not at John.

“He first denied knowing Moriarty, but he slipped up. He called him Jim. I never told him the man’s first name. He said you went to his pub and shot the place up.”

“That is true.” Sherlock said. “I told him to never see you again.”

“You can see he didn’t listen to you.” John waved at his face. “He said he would be back for me. That I was his now.”

Sherlock’s anger darkened to raging hatred. He stood up and began to pace around the small kitchen. John watched him and had the overwhelm sense of familiarity with it. Sherlock had never been in this flat before but it reminded him of before, when they lived together. He felt a twinge of a forgotten emotion prick at his chest. A softness returned to him for the briefest of moments, but then it just disappeared as quickly.

“What is it Sherlock?” John asked as the hardness returned to him.

“I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock said without looking at John.

“What? You’re sorry? For which time? When you kidnapped me and dragged me back into all of this? Or maybe for setting me up to be a target for Moriarty and Moran? Or was it for the time you fucking tore my heart out of my chest when you kicked me to the kerb for no reason at all?”

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked at the other man. John still had deep blue eyes, but they were no longer open and inviting. The warmth he had known there was shut away and hidden. Sherlock knew he was to blame for it. For all of it.

“You forgot to mention the drugs.” Sherlock almost whispered.

John felt nauseous. He could no longer hold the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze. The silver-blue eye burned into him.

“We both did things we shouldn’t have.” John said quietly.

“No, I knew what I was doing when I said those things. I wanted to drive you away. I couldn’t let you stay.”

John glanced back. “Why not? Did you hate me that much? Was I that . . . boring?”

“I was never bored a single moment in your presence, John. I never met anyone who stimulated me more than you.”

John blinked and set the glass down on the table.

“You said you were bored with me. I repulsed you.”

“I said I was repulsed. I didn’t tell you it was the idea of you being harmed that did it. I was pushing you as hard as I could to leave me because I didn’t want you to be harmed.”

John stood up and growled as he moved threateningly towards the dark haired man. “I was harmed, Sherlock. You hurt me more than anyone else living or dead!”

“There was a threat, John. Someone sent Mycroft a photo of you with a target drawn on it. I had to send you away to keep you safe.”

John stopped his advance and thought for a moment. “And you thought the army would be safer?”

“I knew you would go regardless what I demanded of you. I honestly believe that you would be safer there than out in civilian life. I thought being a doctor you would be stationed some place like Germany or here in England. I never thought for a moment you would be going off to Afghanistan.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the photo . . . about the threat?” John asked. For the first time since John had been kidnapped he didn’t sound angry at Sherlock.

“You would have demanded to stay. You would have stayed with me and possibly been targeted . . . maybe even killed. I couldn’t stand by and let that happen, John. You are . . . important to me.”

John turned his back on Sherlock and moved back to the table. He glanced down at the empty glass then at the bottle. He knew he was slightly drunk but he was more than able to make decisions.

“What about the drugs? I found that mirror in the bedroom. It had cocaine on it.”

“I made it look like I was using again to encourage you to leave. It was just baking soda. I knew you wouldn’t check it. I didn’t start using again until . . .” Sherlock looked away as his words trailed off.

“Until when?” John turned to look at the man.

“Until I knew you were gone.” Sherlock returned John’s gaze. “You weren’t the only one who was hurting that day. You weren’t the only one who had his heart ripped from his chest.”

“You didn’t have to do it, Sherlock. We could have worked together. We could have protected each other.” John stepped forward and cupped Sherlock’s face between his palms as he pleaded with the man.

Sherlock’s body jerked from John’s touch. Sherlock’s eyes scanned over John’s face and honesty he saw there.

“How could I let you stay knowing there was a chance you could be killed? John, I told you the truth all those years ago. Don’t make me say it if you don’t feel the same way, but what I felt then, I feel now. I have never stopped.”

John’s hands held Sherlock’s face. Memories came rushing back. A familiarity that was welcomed and still feared. How many times had John held Sherlock this way? How many times had they avoided speaking of their feelings? Giving it a name? How often had moments like this ended with a kiss?

John’s hand remained on Sherlock’s cheeks for several seconds as his eyes moved slowly over the man’s face. His dark curls skimming across the pale forehead. The dark eyebrows over the silver-blue eyes. And his lips. Curved and plumb. John’s eyes rested there on Sherlock’s lips for one then two breaths.

Then John dropped his hands and stepped back. He dropped his gaze and stepped back again until he knocked into the table.

“You should leave, Sherlock.” John sounded defeated.

“I believe we have walked away from each other too many times already, John. I need to know how you feel. I know what you told me when we were together was real. I remember very clearly what you said the day you left . . .”

“The day you threw me out . . .”

“I need to know what you feel now.” Sherlock continued ignoring John’s jab.

John tried to swallow his emotions down but couldn’t. The tear slipped from his eye and slid down over the dark bruise on his cheek.

“You’re an idiot if you don’t know.” John whispered.

“Tell me, John.” Sherlock held his breath. He truly could not deduce John’s emotions. He wanted to believe but his own desires tainted his ability to read John Watson.

John was shaking. He grabbed the edge of the table to help steady himself. He squared his shoulders and pulled his body into military attention.

“I never lied to you Sherlock. I told you the truth. You were my life. Then and . . . I can’t tell you my feelings now because I don’t want them. You hurt me so bad. I went years hating you for what you did to me. Hating you while still missing you every moment of every day. Wanting to see you and wanting to be with you and despising myself for wanting.” More tears slipped from John’s eyes.

Sherlock felt his heart speed up. His finger twitched in need to touch. The two men stood mere feet apart when they heard the front door of the flat open. Sherlock stepped forward and placed himself between John and the door.

“John?” They heard a male voice call out. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

“That’s Moran.” John whispered. He moved around Sherlock and started towards the living room.

Sherlock grabbed John’s arm and held him back. From inside his jacket, he removed a small handgun. John glanced at the gun then back up to Sherlock.

“No, please . . .” John pleaded.

Sherlock frowned as he stared at John. He returned the gun back into the holster under his coat. John stepped forward as Moran stepped into the kitchen. His expression changed from open and friendly to anger when he saw Sherlock.

“What’s he doing here?” Moran asked.

“He is invited. You are not.” John said. “How did you get a key to my flat?”

“Obviously, he stole your key and had it duplicated.” Sherlock said before Moran could answer John.

Moran expression hardened. He quickly reached into his jacket pocket and removed a gun. He pointed it at Sherlock.

“John is coming with me.” Moran said darkly.

John shifted and moved between Sherlock and Moran. “No, I’m not. Just leave, Seb.”

“I told you that you were mine. You are going to come with me now, or stay here and watch your boyfriend bleed out on the floor.”

“I told you he is not my boyfriend. I won’t go with you, Seb. I don’t know why you think I would.” John said coldly.

“John is not some object you can claim. He is not a pet.” Sherlock glared at the Moran. He didn’t dare take his eyes off the man or the gun.

“You’re the one who treated him like a fucking object, Holmes. You and your brother. Now, com’on John, I’ve made the arrangements.”

“What arrangements?” John asked.

“We’re leaving. I’m taking you with me.” Moran said.

John glanced back and forth between Sherlock and Moran.

“I don’t understand why you think I would go with you.” John repeated himself.

“John, I care about you. I want to protect you from this mad man. Come with me.”

John wanted to scream. “He wants to protect me, you want to protect me. What is wrong with you two? Why do you believe I can’t take care of myself!? I don’t want either one of you!” John turned and stepped away from the two men. He leaned against the kitchen table, crossing his arms defiantly over his chest.

Moran growled and pointed the gun at Sherlock.

“This is your fault! We was happy until you came back around!”

“Was that before or after Moriarty told you to seduce John?” Sherlock asked. He covertly moved closer to the table.

“Just get out . . . both of you. I’m tired of this. I’m tired of being treated like a child.” John said.

“You’re coming with me, John. That’s final. I’m not letting you go!” Moran reached out to grab John’s arm.

Sherlock grabbed the bottle John had been drinking from. He brought it down hard over Moran’s wrist. The glass shattered and the brown liquor splashed over the three of them. Moran hissed as he twisted. The gun fired. It was loud in the small room. Sherlock grunted and fell backwards.

John reacted immediately. He grabbed the barrel of the handgun and twisted it in Moran’s grasp. John controlled the muzzle and pushed it away from Sherlock. He wrapped his free arm around Moran’s shoulder and pushed the man back. Together, Moran and John fell to the floor. Grappling to control the gun. Moran grunted when they hit the tile. His head hit the hard floor.

John lay down on top of the bigger man. He pinned Moran down as he held onto the gun. Moran growled and he tried to push John off of him.

The second gunshot was muffled.

Sherlock crawled across the floor to the two men. John was unnaturally still. Sherlock was panicked. He couldn’t even feel the pain in his shoulder.

“JOHN!” He reached for the man.

John rolled off of Moran. The small gun was in John’s hand. There was a smear of blood across John’s chest. Sherlock threw himself at the man.

“JOHN! ARE YOU HURT?!” Sherlock grabbed John’s shoulders.

“It’s not mine.” John whispered.

Sherlock glanced over at Moran. The man was laying perfectly still. His eyes were open and blood was spreading across his chest and pooling at his sides.

~221~

2010       Six months after he watched John walk away, Sherlock was in a haze of drug use. He didn’t know which city he was in or who he was with. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now but to forget. With every hit and every high he could forget the bluest eyes he had ever seen. He could forget the words he had said to John and the pain he had caused himself and the man he loved.

Sleep brought him no relief. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw John’s face. He heard John’s voice. The pleas to let him stay. Sherlock hated himself. He was repelled by what he was forced to do. He wanted to blame Mycroft for putting him that position or John making him care for the boy. But Sherlock knew that it was himself who chose to tear his own heart out instead of allowing John to be harmed.

The weeks passed in a haze of unfamiliar faces and drug induced images, as Sherlock traveled. He remember waking up on a beach once. The sound of the waved rhythmically washing over the rocky beach. There was a man with him. He didn’t remember who the man was but he was small and red-headed. His face was round and open like John’s. His eyes were the same shade of blue. He told Sherlock his name was Arthur. Sherlock left him on the beach.

Sherlock lived with his homeless. Eagerly accepted and protected by them. He disappeared and eluded Mycroft’s spies. When he woke up in a crack house, he was surprised by the man he saw. He was still under the spell of the heroin but he could tell it was Greg Lestrade looking at him.

~~

Greg Lestrade got out of his car. He didn’t know why he had been called to the abandoned house near the Vauxhall tunnels but here he was. He carefully stepped this way through trash that littered the ground surrounding the house and up to the police officer guarding the door.

“Lestrade.” Greg held out his warrant card for the officer to see. The PC nodded his head and held the crime scene tape up.

“Upstairs on the right. He’s been yelling for a homicide detective since we arrived.”

Greg glance up at the two story building. The windows were broken out and the front door had been kicked in. He didn’t know why he had been called here. The report that had come in was ‘body found in known drug den’. Obvious drug overdose. No reason to believe a homicide detective was needed.

He walked into the house and was nearly bowled over by the smell of vomit and urine. There were unconscious individuals laying on the floor. PCs and cadets in training were slowly gathering them together to have them shipped over to shelters or hospital accordingly. The floor was covered with trash and bedding. There were numerous syringes and broken vials of glass mixed into the debris.

He walked up the stairs, hearing the shouting from one of the rooms up there. Half way up the rickety stairs he recognized the voice.

_‘It couldn’t be!’_ he thought. He rushed up the last few steps and into the room.

There, standing over a prone body was Sherlock ‘Bloody’ Holmes, waving a broken wine bottle at the police officers.

“Where’s he _._ . . I need ‘ims.” Sherlock was weaving terrible and having a difficult time standing. His eyes were bloodshot and it seemed his lips couldn’t form the words he needed to say.

“Look, just put the bottle down.” An officer to Sherlock’s right tried to talk to the intoxicated man.

“Lesstraade!” Sherlock shouted dragging the man’s name out.

“Sherlock!” Greg barked the man’s name. Everyone in the room jumped back as Greg stepped right up to Sherlock. “Drop it!”

Sherlock glanced down at his hand and seemed to recognize the bottle in his hand. He dropped it and broke again hitting the bare floor.

“It took . . . long enough to get ‘ere.” Sherlock weaved then closed his eyes. His body slumped and fell forward. Greg caught Sherlock before the man fell to the floor.

Carefully, Greg laid Sherlock down next to the other man on the floor. He was squatting next to the man when the police officer came up and started to put handcuffs on Sherlock.

“This bastard has been screaming for you ever since we arrived.” The officer told Greg.

“What did he want?” Greg asked.

“He said this other crackhead was murdered. He said it was an active crime scene, the bastard.”

Greg glanced over at the dead man lying next to Sherlock. The man was in his thirties with dark brown hair and trimmed beard. He was wearing a button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A needle attached to a syringe was still in the vein of his right arm. The belt was tight around the upper arm; the bruised skin was visible under the leather.

“Don’t handcuff him.” Greg said. He stood up looking at the dead man. “Get forensics in here and call my team over. Also get as much coffee as you can. We need to sober up Sherlock.”

Greg knelt down beside Sherlock and the dark haired man woke briefly to look up into the detective’s face.

“Lestrade, when did you get here?”

It took two hours to sober Sherlock up enough for them to talk.

“Okay, Sherlock, you called to get me here. Explain why this is a murder.” Greg asked as his forensic team glared at being brought into something that was quite obviously an accidental overdose.

Sherlock didn’t remember the body or that he had called for Lestrade to come. He took a moment to glance at the body stilling lying in the room. He looked over the dead man’s clothes and the floor surrounding him.

“Look at him, Lestrade.” Sherlock growled. “Just observe.”

Greg glanced at the man lying on the floor of the crack house. He was wearing brown trousers and rather new looking trainers. He had on a dirty button down shirt but no coat. Greg looked back at the young man and raised an eyebrow.

“Well?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“The man’s watch is on his left wrist. There are callouses on the index finger of his right hand. His right wrist is thick than the left and the right forearm is more muscled. The man is right handed.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Right handed people don’t shoot themselves us with their left hand.”

Lestrade looked down at the needle in the smooth skin of the right inner elbow.

“Maybe someone here helped him out. It’s not uncommon for another junkie to shoot a friend up.”

“He wasn’t a junkie. Look at him. His hair has recently been cut. His beard is neatly trimmed and well cared for. His fingernails are clean as are his teeth. His shirt is dirty but if you look at it you can tell all those stains were made here in this room. Meanwhile, those dark brown trousers only have stains on the calves as if he was dragged in here. If you examine his trainers you will see that they are new but have rub marks on the heels from being dragged. Your team messed up any chance of us examining the marks on the floor when they came in here or you would have seen the slight drag marks through the dirt.”

“So he was . . . what? Knocked out somewhere else and brought here. Then shot up to make it appear to be an overdose? You figured all that out while you were higher than a kite?”

“He has a wedding band. Check with his wife or more likely her lover.” Sherlock said as he stepped over the body and towards the door.

“Wife? Lover?! Sherlock . . .!” Lestrade grabbed Sherlock and pulled him out of the room. “Are you just making this shite up? I agree, this was a murder but a wife doing in her husband or some phantom lover. You’re just putting me on. What am I going to do with you?”

“I don’t know what you mean?” Sherlock said as Lestrade held onto his upper arm and pulled him down the stairs and out the door of the dilapidated house.

“Where is John?” Lestrade asked as he pulled Sherlock to the police car.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock yanked his arm out of Greg’s grasp. “He doesn’t share that information with me.”

Lestrade turned and stared at the young man. He opened the backdoor of the police car and shoved Sherlock into the back seat, head first. Sherlock sprawled out over the seat as Lestrade slammed the door shut.

“Stay there till I’m done!” Lestrade growled and stomped back into the building.

Sherlock checked but there were no door handles in the backseat of the patrol car. He dozed on and off while locked in the car. He could hear the police radio and the sounds of cars coming and going around him. Mentioning John’s name had brought back the dreams of the short blonde man. He thought he heard John’s laughter and Sherlock sat up quickly twisting around to look out the rear window of the vehicle.

Sherlock didn’t recognize the person who laughing. It was a PC and they looked nothing like his John. He collapsed back down on the seat and waited for Lestrade.

After two and half hours Lestrade came back to the car and unlocked the back door. He reached in and grabbed Sherlock by the scruff of the neck. Pulling the young man out to stand next to him. Sherlock was about to shred Lestrade with a scathing comment when he noticed another man walk up to them.

“Here he is.” Greg said hold tight to Sherlock’s nape. “Get your brother and get the hell out of my crime scene.”

“Thank you, Gregory. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you calling me instead of arresting him. Although, incarceration may be a needed . . .” Mycroft mused.

“I don’t care what you are thankful for or what is needed for him.” Greg interrupted Mycroft. “If John was around, I would have called him. I found him and now I’m giving him back to you. Keep an eye on him this time.”

He pushed Sherlock forward and the man crashed into his brother. Knocking both of them off balance. Mycroft quickly grabbed Sherlock and stopped him from falling but it was neither graceful nor compassionate.

Greg Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the two Holmes brothers. Mycroft handed his brother off to another man standing behind himself. He turned back to Greg seeming to want to say something more but unable to find the right words.

“Yes . . . thank you, detective. I hope that in the future . . .”

“There is no future for us, Mycroft. You made sure of that.”

Mycroft nodded his head and turned to leave. Sherlock had already be placed in the backseat of his car. The next stop was rehab for the young man. And for Mycroft . . . a bottle of brandy.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2017 John and Mycroft have a talk. 2011 Sherlock and Mycroft have a talk.

2017       John paced in the small waiting room during the surgery to remove the bullet from Sherlock’s shoulder. He didn’t sit down once. Mycroft had perched himself on a chair in the corner of the room. His hands folded neatly over the handle of his umbrella. Only the ghostly white knuckles expressed his fear and apprehension. Police had been there to question John about the shooting. He explained that Seb had forced his way into John’s flats and shot Sherlock unprovoked. The officers had dutifully taken down the information while occasionally glancing at Mycroft. The older man sat perfectly still; like a stone statue, as John described the attack.

After the men left, John turned to Mycroft. “Are you going to kill Moriarty?”

Mycroft turned and looked at the doctor. He slowly blinked as if waking from a dream.

“I don’t believe it is in your best interest to ask those types of questions, John.”

“Mycroft, let’s be honest. We’ve never gotten along. I don’t trust you and you think I’m was bad for Sherlock. But we can agree that we both love him.” John said.

“Can we? Can you honestly say that you still love my brother?” Mycroft asked wondering if John realized what he was actually saying.

John blinked then thinned his lips. “I can honestly say that yes, I love him. I also hate him at times and want to punch him in the face for making me so angry with him. But, yes, besides everything that has happened and all the years apart, I love him. I always have and will probably always will.” John was finally truthful to himself as well as Mycroft.

Mycroft stared at John’s open expression. He felt a stab of guilt run through him. How different his brother’s life could have been if John Watson had stayed with him seven years ago. What kind of man would Sherlock be now?

“Yes, John, we both care very deeply for Sherlock and we both need to protect him from himself.” Mycroft sighed. “I do not wish to cause Sherlock any more distress, but I can’t see a clear way to neutralize Moriarty that won’t lead to the destruction of everything we’ve built.”

“Is your empire more important than your brother?” John asked.

Mycroft didn’t get to answer the question because the surgeon had come in the room to report on Sherlock.

~~

Sherlock woke up in levels. He felt like he was swimming to the surface of a deep lake or out in the middle of the ocean. He became aware of things peripherally while his eyes were still closed and his ability to speak was limited. He heard voices. Most he didn’t recognize. He felt people touching him which he despised. Then he heard John. His John. The man was standing close to him because John was talking softly but Sherlock could still hear him and understand him.

“You better wake up soon so I can yell at you and tell you, you are a bloody idiot.”

Sherlock felt a hand cup his cheek. He tried to twist his head into the warmth but his neck muscles didn’t seem to want to work.

“John . . .” Sherlock thought he was shouting but no one seemed to hear him.

“I’m waiting, Sherlock. I’m waiting for you. You aren’t going to force me away again.”

Sherlock liked that. John would be there when he finally woke up.

The surgery had gone through without any complications, but Sherlock was slow to recover from the anesthesia. The anesthetist had used a heavier than normal dosage because Sherlock had fought the drug all the way down. He was in a private room of King’s Hospital and Mycroft had already installed a personal nurse to be with him at all time.

John looked at the medical chart that hung from a bracket by the hospital room door. He didn’t have privileges at this hospital but no one was going to stop him from checking up on Sherlock. He read the surgeon’s notes and quickly reviewed the lab results. Satisfied that everything possible was being done for his former lover, John stepped close to the bed to look down into Sherlock’s sleeping face.

For a moment he was taken back to a flat just off Regent Park. He wondered how many times he had stared into that same face and wondered how he was so lucky to have Sherlock Holmes in his life. He honestly couldn’t say that now, but he was happy Sherlock would be alright.

Moran was dead. A single gunshot wound to the chest. Severed the aorta and Moran had bled out into his chest in mere seconds. There was no way John could have saved his life even if he had tried.

The police had collected John’s clothing and shoes and were presently going through his flat for any additional evidence. He was standing in the hospital room, wearing a pair of scrubs he had borrowed from the physicians’ lounge. A pair of hospital house slippers were on his feet.

John’s hand cupped Sherlock’s cheek as he leaned over the man to whisper in his ear. Mycroft was sitting quietly in the corner and John didn’t want the man to hear him threaten his brother.

“You better wake up soon so I can yell at you and tell you, you are a bloody idiot.”

John thought he saw a twitch at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. A weak attempt to smile. He stepped back and pulled Sherlock’s hospital gown down to look at the bandage over the left shoulder.

“I don’t believe they would appreciate you removing the dressings, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft said from the corner of the room.

“I wasn’t going to touch the dressing. I just wanted to make sure the skin wasn’t showing in signs of infection. His last gunshot wound got infected and I had to put him on antibiotics.” John said as he pulled the cloth back up over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I’m sure the hospital is far more sanitary than whatever back alley you performed Sherlock’s previous surgery in.” Mycroft teased.

The door opened and both men flushed slightly as their conversation was interrupted by Detective Inspector Lestrade. The grey haired man’s eyes swept over John and Sherlock then moved briefly to Mycroft before looking away.

“Did I miss something?” Lestrade asked as he stepped further into the room. The door swung shut behind him.

“On the contrary, Inspector. We were discussing John’s experiences in the army hospital in Kabul.” Mycroft flexed his fingers on the arms of the chair.

Greg glanced briefly again at Mycroft then back to John. “We have finished with your flat. I’ve posted a PC there until you return. You will have someone watching your flat for the next few days until we are certain there won’t be any retaliation from Moriarty.”

John’s felt a lead weight hit his stomach.

“You believe I’m still a target?” John asked.

“Moran was Moriarty’s right hand man. He will be upset with the person who killed him.”

“It was self-defense.” John said quickly.

“We know. It is obvious that you were fighting for your life.” Greg said nodding reassuringly to John. He stepped closer and asked quietly. “Whose gun was it?”

“Moran’s.”

“Are you sure? You don’t want to think about that?” Greg kept facing John, but his eyes shift over to glimpse at Mycroft. “You weren’t give the gun by someone else for protection or whatever?”

“Of course I’m sure. He pulled it out of his coat.” John said.

“Is there a problem, Inspector?” Mycroft asked from his corner.

Greg took a small step back and looked at the three men. Sherlock’s eyes were beginning to flutter open.

“He’s waking up.” Greg said nodding towards Sherlock.

John quickly turned back and looked at the man in the bed. Sherlock was indeed waking. John took Sherlock’s wrist in his hand; his finger encircling the delicate bones. He felt Sherlock’s pulse rate increase in a firm steady beat and Sherlock’s breathing become normal for a conscious individual.

“Jawn . . .” Sherlock tried to say John’s name but his mouth was terribly dry and his tongue felt thick between his teeth. “Water . . .”

Mycroft stood and immediately took the plastic cup from the tray and held it with the straw to Sherlock’s lips. The man took a sip as his eyes switched between the three men watching him. Mycroft withdrew the straw and Sherlock sighed deeply.

“Moran?” Sherlock asked his voice still raspy.

“Dead.” Greg said.

Sherlock nodded his head. “John saved my life. Moran shot me.”

Mycroft held the straw again to Sherlock’s lips and the dark haired man took another drink. Greg didn’t say anything more. He just waited till Sherlock was able to speak again.

“Why were you asking about the gun?” Sherlock asked.

“You heard that?” Greg asked.

“Yes.”

Greg glanced between the men. “The nurses found a holstered gun when they undressed you.”

“He wasn’t threatening Moran when he was shot.” John said. His hand slipped down from Sherlock’s wrist to his hand. Their fingers laced together.

“I already said we know it was self-defense. Only John’s and Moran’s fingerprints were on the gun. But the gun itself is the question. The bullet that was removed from your shoulder has been matched to a bullet from another crime. A murder.”

“Not surprising given that Moran worked for Moriarty. I wouldn’t be surprised if Moran was responsible for several murders ordered by the psychopath.” Mycroft said.

“It was a cold case. A murder of a police officer eleven years ago.” Greg said calmly.

John quickly put the pieces together. “Dimmock.”

“Yes.” Greg said. “It is remarkable that after all these years that case is solved by one of my main suspects being shot by the same gun. And the man whose fingerprints are on that gun happen to be the same man who gave an alibi to my suspect eleven years ago.”

John paled as Sherlock grew angry. He tried to lift himself out of the bed but Mycroft easily pushed him back down.

“Sherlock! You have just under gone major surgery. Stay in bed!” Mycroft growled at his younger brother.

“You can’t possible believe John was involved in Dimmock’s death!” Sherlock snapped at Greg.

Greg looked thoughtfully at John then smiled. “John Watson. No. But the two of you – absolutely.”

Mycroft leaned back and remove his hand from Sherlock’s uninjured shoulder.

“Greg, I realize that you are very bitter over our previous entanglement. You have a very good reason to despise my very existence but . . . I give you my word as a gentleman . . .”

Greg cleared his throat very pointedly, interrupting Mycroft’s statement. The older Holmes glanced down in his own derision.

“My word as an Englishman, John and Sherlock had nothing to do with Detective Dimmock’s murder.”

“The only way you could give that assertion was if you killed him?” Greg said darkly.

“Or if I know who was responsible. A few months after we started . . . our relationship, I was involved in an interview with Jim Moriarty. He informed me that he had ordered Moran to shoot the detective. Just as John had asserted, Dimmock was taking bribes. He was on the payroll of Moriarty. He started demanding more and Moriarty decided his death was more profitable than keeping him alive.”

Greg took a moment to think through what Mycroft had said to him. “You knew this after we started seeing each other privately.”

“Yes.”

“And you never told me. You knew that case was eating me up inside and kept that information to yourself?” Greg glared.

“If I had told you, you would have wanted to know how I learned the information. That would had led to too many awkward questions.”

“And we both know how much you hate awkward questions.” Greg stared at Mycroft.

The man held the detective’s gaze. He kept himself open and unafraid. After a few moments, Mycroft saw Greg’s expression soften slightly. A warmth that had been missing from his chocolate brown eyes returned. There was a ghost of smile on Greg’s lips, then it was gone and the man was turning back to John and Sherlock.

“So Moran killed Dimmock eleven years ago and tried to kill you last night?”

“He was trying to kidnap John.” Sherlock said. “He shot me so I wouldn’t stop him.”

Greg turned and looked at John. The blonde nodded his head in agreement.

“He said he was taking me away from London. Something was happening between Moriarty and the Holmes. He wanted me . . .” John ducked his head. “Safe.”

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand. The two men looked at each other. Greg glanced back at Mycroft.

“Are you planning a retaliation against Moriarty for any of this?”

Mycroft didn’t answer the police officer but Sherlock spoke up.

“Jim Moriarty and I were involved before I met John. He supplied me with drugs. When I left him, he became bitter.” Sherlock skipped over the part where Mycroft had him beaten up and left him crippled. “Over the years he has threatened Mycroft and myself. Seven years ago he threatened John.”

Greg glanced at the doctor.

“Apparently there was a photograph of me with a target drawn on it.” John said. “I’m sure there was one of you too. Maybe that is why Mycroft ended it with you.”

Greg glanced at Mycroft who still did not answer the unasked questions.

“Moriarty will double his attacks now that we have killed his right hand man, Moran. They will be more frequent but less surgical. He will get messy and innocent people will be hurt.” Mycroft said ignoring Greg’s eyes. “He will continue to come after us until one of both of you are dead, Sherlock.”

“You can’t have this conversation in front of me.” Greg quickly argued. “I’m a police officer and if you are planning on murdering someone, I’ll have to arrest you.”

“Yes you will, detective, but if we purpose a legal way for you to get evidence against Jim Moriarty that would put him in Belmarsh for the rest of his life and prevent any other attacks against Sherlock and John, would you be willing to assist us?” Mycroft asked his former lover.

“The only way that is going to happen is if Sherlock is dead.” Greg said suspiciously.

“Exactly.”

~221~

2011       Sherlock had been out of rehab for two months. He was sitting in Mycroft’s office staring into the flames burning in the fireplace. He looked paler than he had in quite a long time. He was also thinner. Mycroft had complained to the clinic about the Sherlock’s condition but the staff informed him that unless they force fed Sherlock, he wouldn’t eat. There had been concern about his long term health regarding Sherlock’s withdraw.

Unable to focus or make any deduction, Sherlock felt adrift. He looked at people but was unable to determine anything specific to them. It was if his senses, sight, smell, touch, had been removed from him. He felt foreign in his own skin. A stranger in his own body.

Mycroft was afraid for his brother.

“Sherlock, I never asked you, but why did you alibi Moriarty during the Dimmock investigation?” Mycroft asked. He sat in the leather chair opposite from his fragile brother.

It took several moments before Sherlock hummed then nodded his head. As if he was remembering something distant and removed from him.

“He had told me once that if the police ever came to question me about him, I was to say we were together.” Sherlock said without looking at his brother.

“But why did you do what he asked?” Mycroft pushed.

“I wanted his drugs. I was willing to do anything to get them.”

“Anything but give up John Watson.”

Sherlock finally turned and looked at Mycroft. The older brother could see the internal battle that was going on behind Sherlock’s eyes. He wondered for a brief moment which side would win. Sherlock’s need to end the pain he was in or this innate sense of survival.

“John told me one of the requirements of our relationship would be my sobriety.”

“It is a shame the good doctor had to leave, then.” Mycroft wondered if Sherlock’s last venture into a drug indulgence was solely because of John’s departure from his life or a built up need that Sherlock finally succumbed to.

“You know I had to send him away. I was forced too.” Sherlock looked back at the flames.

“Sherlock, we are not destine to enjoy the pleasures of the simple minded people.” Mycroft said. “We will not have hearth and home.”

“I didn’t want that . . . I just wanted John.”

“We aren’t destine for long term meaningful relationships.” Mycroft said. “All lives end . . . all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.”

“Mycroft, I don’t need to hear your musing on sentiment being a weakness.”

Mycroft glanced away from Sherlock, relieved that his younger brother was not watching him. He didn’t believe he could conceal the lie from him.

“You know if he had stayed, Moriarty would have killed him.”

“Yes.”

“You know it was best for the young man. He was removed from the chess board and is now safely away in Germany protected by the Queen’s own army.”

“Don’t tell me where he is ever again. I don’t want to know. I don’t want he hear his name again.” Sherlock said.

“You can not deny what you did was what was best?” Mycroft asked hoping that Sherlock would realize there was no other option.

“Is that what you say to yourself to make yourself feel better about Detective Lestrade?” Sherlock finally turned and glared at his brother.

Mycroft felt the stab to his heart. He hadn’t seen the police officer since the night he handed Sherlock over to him. But the memory of Gregory’s anger was still bitter to him.

“I didn’t push Gregory away. I let him make the decision to leave.” Mycroft said with a forced lightness to the tone of his voice. Sherlock raised an eyebrow questioning his brother silently. “He believed my reputation was unearned. It was the reason he agreed to start a relationship with me. I left some incriminating information out where Gregory would easily see it. The documents he found proved I was involved in criminal activities and that I was using him for information. He became enraged and left me.”

“You believed he wouldn’t use the evidence to arrest you?” Sherlock asked.

“The evidence would be easily thrown out of court. Nothing he learned could be tied to any ongoing investigations and I felt reasonably certain he wouldn’t betray our previous closeness for the purpose of furthering his career.”

Sherlock sighed and looked back at the fire. “We are fools, Mycroft.”

Mycroft glanced briefly at his brother then let his own attention move to the flames. He would never admit it out loud, but his brother was correct.

“Sherlock, you can not keep pinning.” Mycroft almost whispered.

“You are assuming my debilitated self is because of emotion.”

“What else could it be?” Mycroft asked.

“Mortality.”

“Aren’t you being a little dramatic? I sincerely do not believe one can die from a broken heart.”

“And still I find myself in the limbo between the two worlds. The perfect condition to be in employment to you.”

Mycroft pulled his attention away from the fire and back to his brother. “What are you saying, Sherlock?”

“Simple. I am now completely available to work for you. Do your legwork. Moriarty was just the tip of the iceberg. I’m sure you would need a strong intelligent right hand that is willing to do whatever it takes to put the Holmes on top.”

“Are you being honest with me, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.

“Yes, I want to start now. Tell me what we are going to do to eliminate the competition.”

Mycroft looked Sherlock over carefully. The light that once shown behind the silver-blue eyes was gone. It was replaced with a deadness that was disturbing. But if this would give an impulse for Sherlock to start trying again then it could be the first step back to humanity.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs. He steeple his fingers under his chin and began to tell his brother his plans for the two of them.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2017 The final confrontation between Sherlock and Moriarty.

2017       John didn’t like the plan. Too many things could go wrong. Least of all, Sherlock could get killed. It was a stupid plan and he couldn’t believe he had agreed to go along with it.

It was simple. Sherlock would meet with Jim Moriarty in a coffee shop just off of Covent Gardens. Sherlock would be wearing a wire and get Moriarty to confess to a criminal act. Then the police would be notified and Moriarty would be arrested. Simple. John was hating it.

The temperatures were beginning to warm and the crowds were out shopping amongst the stalls. Sherlock walked passed the trendy shops and the tables with odd bits of silver and obsolete china patterns towards the prearranged meeting place. He didn’t see Moriarty anywhere around. He wondered if the man knew it was a trap.

_‘Of course he knew.’_ Sherlock thought to himself. It was so obvious a trap but he was certain that Moriarty wouldn’t pass up the chance to taunt him in person either.

Sherlock walked through the gathering crowds forcing himself to not look at the individuals as he passed. He knew he was being watched. He knew some were Mycroft’s men while other had to belong to Moriarty. He stepped into the coffee shop and quickly gazed over the various customers inside the small café. Sherlock didn’t recognize any of them personally, but he quickly deduced the profession of each individual. His eyes swept passed the two undercover policemen sitting together at a table by the window then over to Jim, sitting by himself; a small demitasse in front of him.

Sherlock went to the counter and ordered his coffee. He waited till the barista prepared the Café Americana before taking the cup and saucer outside to one of the tables on the pavement. He sat down, setting the coffee next to him. Crossing his legs he glanced up and down the street. His eyes quickly categorizing everything surrounding him.

The sound of the chair scraping across the concrete drew his attention to the man sitting down beside him.

“A bit too crowded in there, wouldn’t you say.” Moriarty sat down at the table across from Sherlock. He too had twisted his chair so he could watch the crowds and scan for any threats.

“You obviously saw them. Why did you remain? Did you think I was foolish enough to carry on a conversation with you within earshot of two members of Scotland Yard?” Sherlock asked as he reached for the coffee cup. He took a tentative sip, testing the temperature. Finding it reasonable to drink, he took another larger sip, letting the coffee and cream cover over his tongue.

“I’m sure we are being watched out here too.” Moriarty said as he glanced around.

“Of course. You don’t sincerely believe Mycroft would allow me to see you alone. I believe two of your men are over by the bakery.”

Moriarty smiled and took a sip of his coffee.

“Just checking to see if maybe you had decided to join the side of angels. So glad to see you are still just as reprehensible as ever.” Moriarty said with a glint in his eye. “I do miss our little games, Sherlock. How are your knees doing, by the way?”

Sherlock ignored the jab and set his cup down. “This feud between you and Mycroft is becoming far too expensive to continue.”

“Ah . . . you wish to talk business, how boring. Did big brother insist you come and make peace with me after you killed my Sebie?” Moriarty asked as he twisted slightly to study Sherlock’s expressions.

“I, unfortunately, didn’t kill the ex-soldier. If it had been up to me, I feel a slow painful evisceration would have been more appropriate for what he did.”

“Fucking Johnny Boy? Sebie did become quickly enamored of the man. I wonder what makes John Watson such a good shag that everyone who fucks him decides to become unreasonable afterwards.”

Sherlock forced himself to remain unemotional. He turned to look at Moriarty.

“Your argument was with me. You shouldn’t have included John. Not seven years ago and not now.”

Moriarty held his mangled left hand up for Sherlock to see. He twisted it around so the dark haired man could see how much damage had been done.

“Your brother shouldn’t have taken his frustration with you out on me. I was just having fun with you. It wasn’t my fault that you were an addict who couldn’t control your cravings.”

Sherlock knew that Jocko had beaten Moriarty up as punishment for supplying him drugs, but the hand looked like prolong torture had taken place.

“You knew the risks of being involved with me.” Sherlock said glancing away from Moriarty.

“As did you.” Moriarty replied. “And now, so does Johnny Boy. Or he will when I’m done. I was willing to let him live by giving him to Sebie as a toy. A pet. But now that my dear assassin is dead, I’ll just have to find someone else to entertain the good doctor after I kill you and destroy your brother.”

“Was that your plan all along? To kill us?” Sherlock asked. He unbuttoned his coat and let the heavy wool slide open.

“Kill Mycroft? No. Kill you? Yes. I was going to take his right hand away from him. Just like he took my left. I’ve been manipulating you and Mycroft for months now. Slowly chipping away at his empire and reducing his control. Then I was going to first drive you back to drugs. Flaunt John and Seb’s relationship till you either had to act or flee into the oblivion of heroin. Then I was going to let you do the coup de gras. A suicide in front of Mycroft would be perfect ending to Mycroft’s reign.”

“Very Shakespearian of you. How did you plan on forcing me to do that?” Sherlock asked feeling sick to his stomach.

“You have a weakness, Sherlock. One that I was more than willing to exploit.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “John.”

“Yes. If you wanted dear little Johnny Boy left alive, you would have to shoot yourself in front of your brother.”

“He performed that service for you, didn’t he? Moran was your personal assassin?” Sherlock asked looking directly at Moriarty.

The man smiled and nodded. “He was experienced at it.”

“Dimmock?”

“Detective Dimmock was becoming a pain. He was demanding more and more money with every tip he gave me to avoid arrest. It was becoming tedious. I let Moran know where he would be and then I gave you the speedball that night. I had planned on you staying with me and being my alibi in the morning. I didn’t know your tolerance had improved enough for you to wander home to your little wife, John.”

“I tried to give you an alibi, like we agreed upon.” Sherlock remembered that night.

“Yes, but Johnny Boy let the cat out of the bag. He really is very annoying.”

Sherlock glanced away from the insanity that he saw in the man’s eyes. For a moment Sherlock wonder if it had always been there but he had been too distracted by the drugs to notice it before. Or had the twelve hours Jocko had beaten and tortured the man cause the fissure to open up in Jim Moriarty’s soul and allowed the monster to escape.

“You are insane.” Sherlock said calmly picking up his coffee cup again. He took another sip, keeping his eyes focused on anything other than Moriarty.

“You owe me, Sherlock Holmes. You and your brother.”

“Well, now that you have told me your plan, I assure you, the debt will never be paid. You have failed completely, Jim. You can’t force me back to your depravity nor will I be committing suicide before my brother. Moran is dead and John is safe. You are nothing more than an annoyance now. Something that we, Holmes, will swat away.”

“I may not be able to force you to kill yourself in front of your brother, but I can still take you away from him. I’m sure he is watching now.” Moriarty growled.

He stood up quickly, pushing the metal chair he was sitting in back. It rattled loudly as it scrapped across the pavement. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the gun. He fired once. Sherlock slammed backwards and hit the ground. His black coat spread out around him. The red stain spread across the white shirt.

~~

John was standing behind the table with Greg. It was a vender’s stall selling old hats and clothes. He watched from the distance as Sherlock and Moriarty talked. When Moriarty stood rapidly and pulled the gun out of coat, John started to climb over the table. Knocking the piles of clothes and hats off. Greg grabbed John’s arm and held him back.

“No John. Wait!”

The gunshot was loud and people started to run in every direction. The two armed response team members had a difficult time pushing through the crowd and towards Moriarty. The two police officers who had been sitting inside the shop reached Moriarty first. Jim Moriarty was tackled to the ground before he could fire again.

John pushed Greg off himself and ran across the pavement to Sherlock’s fallen body. Blood appeared to be soaking his shirt and pooling underneath him. John grabbed Sherlock’s body and pulled it into his lap. He placed his fingers on Sherlock’s neck and tried to find a pulse. The pale silver-blue eyes were open and staring blankly up at the sky. A small trail of blood left the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and slipped down his cheek.

John bowed his head as he held the lifeless form. He slowly started rocking, holding Sherlock closed to him.

“Sherlock! . . . Sherlock! NO!” He cried out.

Moriarty smiled as he was hauled to his feet. The handcuffs closed snuggly around his ruined wrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember there is one chapter to go.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

2018       John attended every day of the trial. The Crown Prosecution was trialing Moriarty on the death of Officer Paul Dimmock. The most damning piece of evidence was the video tape of Moriarty meeting with Sherlock. Moriarty openly admitting he had ordered the murder of the police officer then shot Sherlock in the crowded café. The murder of Sherlock was not even mentioned during the trial. The press and Moriarty’s counsel thought Sherlock’s murder would be the second trial if the Crown couldn’t get a conviction in the Dimmock trial.

Moriarty sat smugly in the box while the trial progressed occasionally glancing over his shoulder at John. On the fourth day of the trial, the judge notified the court that the jury had been removed from the hotel they were sequestered at because of possible jury tampering. Moriarty’s defense counsel strongly complained of the implications but could not do much more. The jury had been moved to another hotel and every one of the members were registered under an alias.

Moriarty was no longer smug. He twisted and glared up at John in the gallery. The soldier held the man’s stare and returned his own silent fury back at him.

The verdict of the jury was never read. Although after the trial, several newspapers reported that anonymous sources claimed it was a guilty verdict, the trial had been suspended because Jim Moriarty was found dead in his prison cell. He had apparently hung himself with a bed sheet. The investigation had cleared the officers on duty and there was no reason to proceed any further in the enquiry.

John had wanted to see the man be given the guilty verdict. He wanted to see Moriarty’s face as he was convicted of Dimmock’s death and all the other pain and suffering he had caused.

~~

Two months after the incident in Covent Gardens, John opened his flat door to see Anthea standing there. Her attention was focused on her blackberry as she quickly glanced up at the blonde doctor.

“He asked me to give this to you.” She said as she handed John a white envelope.

John hesitated before taking the envelope. It was thick with papers and John felt a squeeze to his stomach. Anthea turned without acknowledging him, and left. Her fingers still tapping on the keys of her phone.

John closed the door and went to sit down at his kitchen table. He held the envelope in his hand reading his name written across it in Sherlock’s hurried script. John’s hands were shaking. He blinked back the tears that threatened his eyes and tore the envelop open across the top.

There were legal documents inside. Sherlock’s will and a deed to a small cottage in Sussex. The post it note attached to the first page of the will was also written in Sherlock’s hand.

“Never felt the need to change anything.” Was all it said. John looked at the date on the will and realized Sherlock had written it nine years ago, when the two of them had been living together on Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson.

Even after Sherlock had thrown him out, Sherlock still chose to leave everything he owned to John. John bowed his head and cried.

~~

Four months after the trial, John made plans for a trip. He told Sarah, his boss at St Bart’s, that he was taking a holiday in Dublin. He would be away for a week. He packed his suitcase and took the train to Liverpool. He bought his ticket for the ferry then went into the pub for some lunch. He told the barman his order and set his suitcase down on the stool by the bar.

“I’ll be right back. Need to wash up.” John said to the man who took his order.

John stepped into the loo and disappeared. The man who had been following him waited by the front door of the pub reading a newspaper. After ten minutes he noticed John’s suitcase still sitting on the stool and his lunch was waiting for him on the bar. He went to the loo himself and found the room empty. Dashing out and glanced up and down the hall. He saw a door leading out into an alley. The man rushed out into the street and looked around. John was gone. Vanished.

Moriarty’s man returned to the pub. He picked up John’s suitcase and opened it. The barman saw the stranger rummaging around in the cloths and shaving kit.

“’ey, what the blood ‘ell do you think you’re doing?” The barman growled.

The stranger pulled out a gun and pointed it at the barman. The big burly man backed away with his hands raised. The stranger tossed John’s clothes on the floor as he searched for something, anything to figure out where the doctor had gone. There were no clues. He had lost his chance to kill John Watson.

~~

John knew he was being followed. He saw the first tail two weeks after the trial. At first he thought they were Mycroft’s men, but Mycroft assured him they were not.

“It appears, John that Moriarty is not done with you yet.” Mycroft said to him over the phone.

It was same man following him for the next four months. John wondered how long the man was going to keep following him. Finally he decide to take things into his own hands. He disregarded the advice he had received from Lestrade and set his own plan into motion.

He made a show of going away. Taking time off from work and packing a suitcase. Taking the train to Liverpool and then simply disappearing out of a pub he knew well. The alley would take him right around to the infrequently used entrance of the train station, where he would buy another train ticket and leave.

He arrived in the little hamlet of Friar’s Gate late in the afternoon. It was a walk to the cottage but he was more than happy to take it. He arrived as the sun was lowering itself in the afternoon sky and the smell of roses around the white thatched cottage were strong. John paused at the gate for moment studying the building. It was as far from the bustle of London life as anyone could get. The square windows were small and even John would need to duck a little to get through the front door. There were numerous rose bushes of different colors around the yard as well as honeysuckle and other flowers. A large willow tree could be seen around the corner of the cottage with a wooden bench sitting under its limbs.

John opened the gate and walked up the flagstone path to the door. He took deep breath to steady himself and raised his fist to knock on the red door. Before his knuckles made contact the door swung open. John smiled as he saw the silver-blue eyes looking back at him.

Sherlock stared for a moment then reached out and pulled John into the cottage. Wrapping his arms around the younger man.

“What took you so long?” Sherlock whispered as he leaned forward wanting a kiss. He hesitated for John’s reply.

“I needed to be sure it was safe.” John reached up and placed his palms on either side of Sherlock’s face. “I lost you once, I don’t want to go through that again. Thank God, that Lestrade’s bullet proof vest worked.”

“And Moriarty didn’t try for a head shot.” Sherlock smiled.

The kiss was warm and tender. So much emotion and sentiment.

“Mycroft said you had been watched.” Sherlock said as the kiss ended.

“Yes, but I lost them in Liverpool.” John reached up and kissed Sherlock again. “Have you been in contact with Lestrade?”

“I’ve finished with my interviews. They have everything I knew about Moriarty’s network. It will be completely dismantled. Sherlock Holmes is dead and Christopher Tietjens is living in Friar’s Gate with his bees.”

“Bees?” John asked with a smile covering his face. He leaned up for another kiss. His hands now moving down over Sherlock’s body, unconsciously checking to make sure the man was alright.

“Yes, John, fascinating creatures. I think I will make it my new hobby.” Sherlock pulled John further into the cottage closing the door behind them.

“Are you okay with this?” John asked as they sat down on the couch together, their hands still moving over each other. The kisses becoming more heated.

“Witness protection will be difficult but as long as you are with me, I will be fine.” Sherlock said as he leaned forward to kiss John’s neck. “Besides, Lestrade has started sending me cold cases to solve. He thought I would be good at it. So far I’ve been able to unravel three.”

“Cold cases?”

“Lestrade said something about me solving some murder once. I truthfully have no idea what he is talking about.” Sherlock smiled.

“Well, John Watson is also gone. Meet Arthur, boyfriend to Christopher.”

Sherlock pulled his head back to look carefully into John’s face.

“Are you sure?” He asked hesitantly. “It will be sedate.”

“We’ve come full circle, Christopher. There is no else I would rather be.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments welcomed and enjoyed.


End file.
